


Many Waters

by LadyFangs



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:26:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyFangs/pseuds/LadyFangs
Summary: "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned." -Solomon 8:7One mistake will change the course of Ragnar and Lagertha's lives. The gods are not impressed with his choice, and they will punish him for it. Their only regret is that Lagertha must suffer as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The beach is where they have made their home, and she loves it here. She loves to wake up to the sound of the ocean in the morning, the seagulls calling to each other in the sky. She loves the way the thunderstorms at night rattle the house, the sound of Thor’s hammer reverberating through her bones. Theirs is not a grand house, it is humble, by any and all measures. But it is theirs.

Her fingers trail the intricate weaving of the wood in the walls, built by the hands of her husband, and his friends. _Husband._ The word is still feels new after two years or marriage, and she speaks it silently, twirling it around on her lips, noting which parts of the word make her lips touch together and pull apart. It’s like a kiss. She smiles when she looks around this house, their large bed in the middle, covered in furs. It is a cool day. Winter will soon be coming, but inside their house it is warm. The only thing missing is him.

It is different, this new life of hers. To be honest, she had never pictured herself a housewife let alone a wife. But she supposed, it was fated to be. Lagertha settles onto a chair and begins to prepare the vegetables she bought earlier in the afternoon in town. Tonight they will eat a stew, with whatever her husband brings home, perhaps a small rabbit. She starts with the potatoes first, peeling them slowly, methodically, as she daydreams.

Her father had wanted boys, but what he got was a little girl, his only child. So he trained her like a man, to become a shield maiden. Her earliest memories are of her father and herself as a child. She remembers the tiny axe he bought for her, and the little bow and shield. And how he played dead when she “attacked” him, merely giving him a scratch. But oh! How it had frightened her, when her father wouldn’t move, and in the mind of a child, how she had actually thought she’d killed him. But when he popped up tickling her, she was so angry! But he had smiled and laughed, and ran his hand over her hair, and told her that one day, she would be a great warrior, and that no matter what she did, he would always be proud.

The day of her first raid, was her 15th birthday. And she had begged her father to let her go with them. Lagertha knew she was ready. But he kept saying no. So she waited until he left, and grabbed her shield and sword and boarded a different boat. When they landed to the east, she was the first one off the board, joining in the charge.

The battlefield was exciting, and she tore through their enemy’s ranks with whip speed, her sword growing bloodier, and bloodier. She was struck hard on the head by a shield and knocked to the ground, but she kicked out with her legs, taking the man down, and before he could get up, she was on him, stabbing her sword through his chest. She remembered how hot her blood ran, how her breath came in ragged pants. She remembers being covered in blood and looking up to see dead men laying on the ground as far as she could see. But what she recalls most is her father walking up to her looking like the fiery image of death itself, and extending his hand to pull her up, pride in his eyes.

He let her come on raids after that, until when she was 17, he finally realized she was a grown woman. Apparently, it had been brought to his attention during their most recent excursion that men were looking at his daughter. And father had not liked _that_ at all. There was a fight, and there was a stabbing. But when she inquired about what happened, he simply looked at her unfazed, and asked her what she was talking about? Of course he knew, because he’d been the one to draw blood. She was the daughter of the bear. And bears are dangerous, especially when protecting their offspring. From then on, men would look, but only one came back again and again, to speak with her father. She had asked about the man once, and her father brushed it off.

“Just a fool in love,” he’d said.

She lost her father in battle when she was 20. By then, Lagertha was starting to realize that her father was getting old. His beard was gray, and years of battle had resulted in a permanent limp. But he was still strong, and proud. And he was angry at her for suggesting that this time, she go alone. It was fated to happen that day.

The storms had battered their ships, and one had sunk. They had all rowed with everything they had to keep from being taken by the waters. By the time they arrived, they were exhausted, and the village they had targeted had warriors waiting for them. It was no contest. Lagertha fought as hard as she could and the few of them that remained managed to repel the ambush. But her father, her beloved bear, lay dying in the sand. She rushed to him, falling to the ground, cradling his head in her lap and holding his hand as he took his last breaths. This would be his last raid. They buried their dead in the sand, and raised wine in celebration that these brave men would soon arrive at the gates of Valhalla, and though she was proud of her father, she couldn’t deny the pain.

There would be long days ahead, and she would carry the burden alone. Winter preparations were harder that year—with only one instead of two to help. And it fell to her to take care of their large farm alone. So when the ice thawed again, and spring came, she could not wait to leave. And when they returned to seek revenge, she slaughtered everyone and everything in her path. She had traded her sword for two axes, and she carved through the ranks like fire. There would be no mercy for them, for they had shown none for her father. She battled like Freyja alongside her kinsman, until the numbers of their enemies dead outnumbered those still alive.

 As the battle cooled, she took a look around her. There were still a few scattered skirmishes, and she went to help her brothers. She took off at a run, and jumped, slamming her axe into the head of the man who hovered over the fallen warrior, taking him down right before he could deal a death blow. And when she looked up again, there were cool blue eyes staring her in the face. She extended her hand to help him to his feet. He got up wincing, and she knew he was injured. So, she draped his arm around her shoulders, and helped him back to camp.

“You saved my life,” he said.

“You’re welcome, she replied, and moved to leave his tent, but he grabbed her arm.

“Marry me.” She laughed, a high, clear laugh that came from her stomach. It was the first time she’d laughed since her father died and it felt so good. But she could tell he was serious.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“But I know who you are Lagertha, daughter of Haakon Sigurdsson.”

“I am Ragnar Lothbrok. And I promise you, you will marry me.”

It was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Perhaps he was delirious? But a part of her was impressed. He knew her name. And he knew her father.

They returned to Kattegat and she went back home once the spoils had been divided among those who remained.

 She was tending her farm the day Ragnar Lothbrok arrived. There was a cockiness to him that raised her defenses. His eyes gleamed with mirth and there was mischief in his smile as he approached.  He made her flush, but she immediately set her dog on him, and laughed as the two chased each other around her house. But then he wrestled the dog, and started playing with it.

She sighed and crossed her arms as he got up and came walking toward her again his face serious this time, her dog following behind him, wagging its tail.

“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into the sack her carried with him, and pulling out a gold bracelet. She gasped as she took it from him, and held it to her chest. It was her father’s. But where? And how?

“Where did you get this?” She demanded looking at him hard.

“You’re father gave it to me,” he says looking at her intently and she has a chance to study him now. He is tall and solidly built, his head is shaved on the sides and back, but left long on top, and his pony tail is wrapped in a bun. His beard is close and neatly trimmed. And she thinks, for the first time, that he is a handsome man.

And as he gets down on one knee and looks at her again, she realizes he does look familiar. He had been that man that kept going to her father, over and over again.

“Marry me,” he asks.

This time her answer is “yes.”

And she has not regretted her answer yet.

She has finished peeling the potatoes and the water is boiling. The sun is setting when the door opens, and the frame of her husband fills the space.

He has caught a rabbit, and it is already dressed and skinned ready to go. Ragnar enters their home and comes to her, dropping the rabbit into the pot on the way. She moves to greet him as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her tight against him and kissing her urgently. The kiss deepens as he moves her backward onto the bed, dropping his cloak on the floor. She puts her hand to his chest, to slow him down, and he looks at her questioningly.

 She sits up with a smile.

“I’m with child,” she says.

His eyes go wide as he reaches out slowly, to touch her belly. She leans back a little, and covers her hand with his.

“A child”, he repeats, and moves down her body, so that he can kiss her stomach. And when he looks at her again, his eyes are bright, and his smile is wide.

“Our child.”

And when she gives birth to Bjorn, he is there, refusing to leave her side, even as the midwives try to kick him out. She thinks he is more anxious than she is, watching him pace the room. But when it’s time to start pushing, he’s right behind her, holding her upright as she pushes with everything she has. It is so painful, and she is certain she will die, but Ragnar whispers in her ear, urging her on, telling her to fight. She screams in pain, her head back, one final push exhausting her strength, but that’s all it takes, and the next sounds she hears are a baby’s cries. The midwives swaddle Bjorn, and puts him in her arms, and Ragnar is crying and so is she and they are so, so happy. He bites the umbilical cord, separating mother from child and she unwraps Bjorn gently, allowing Ragnar to touch the baby. He plants kisses on Bjorn’s head, his cheeks, each tiny finger, and little toe, the little chest, and the round belly.

They make love constantly and they tell each other their dreams, their hopes, and aspirations. They want to travel the seas and explore. See what else is out there. They want to conquer the world, and build new settlements in far off places. They want to see their people _do_ better, _be_ better, and they want to do it together. They dream of a world where fighting is no longer needed for survival, and that they can see their children’s children come into the world.

The gods give them a daughter a year-and-a-half later.

They are a happy family. A beautiful family, and when she looks at them all, she Bjorn, Gyda and Ragnar, she can feel the love of the gods, and she believes they are blessed.

 

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It’s been 12 years. Twelve wonderful years, and they have a prospering farm, and a growing family. The young goats and lambs are their livelihood, and while living isn’t easy, they’ve managed to make ones for themselves. Lagertha’s mountain home was good for growing, but the beach was better for the animals, and Ragnar had always loved the water.

Even as a child he was drawn to the boats and the docks and the fish and there was something about the way the waves crashed ashore that spoke to his spirit—the beauty and dangers of the ocean appealed to him, and so he had talked his wife into moving. Twelve years later and they’ve never regretted that decision. But sometimes regrets and resentments blend together, and lately, it hasn’t been easy. Their children are growing older now and while Ragnar has been able to release himself to the sea…Lagertha has been afforded no such option.

A woman in their society is many things: wife, mother, warrior, head-of-household, friend, confidant, lover…but they are still not equal to men. And while she loves her children, and would defend and protect them to the death, she too years to be free—to explore and travel and voyage—she wants to fight again. To run again, to be _free_ again. Lagertha years for the battlefield, and Ragnar years for something new. Together, they are restless, but for different reasons. And tiny cracks are beginning to emerge.

But hopefully, this will be the year they can both have what they both want. Ragnar is preparing for the Thing, and he will take Bjorn with him. Their son is now 12 years old, mature for his age, and his parents believe his is ready for this rite of passage.

Lagertha tucks her son into bed and kisses him, and does the same with Gyda. They protest, but she does not care. No matter how old they get, they will always be babies to her.

Ragnar and Bjorn will leave the next morning.

 She turns to put more wood on the fire, and sees her husband studying two objects in his hands.

“What are those?” Lagertha asks coming to stand behind him, resting her chin on his shoulder.   It’s a piece of wood carved in a circle, and a rock, slightly pinkish. 

“I have a new way to chart the seas,” he says. “And I believe we can sail west.”

West.

The word sends flutters in her stomach. No one has ever gone west before. She has heard stories about the people there, but they are just that. Stories.

“How?” She is curious, and he raises his eyes to hers, looking at her. There is an intensity in his face, an earnestness, and she can feel that he is determined to do this, no matter what the outcome of the Thing may be.

“Show me, Ragnar.”

 And he does, filling a bowl with water, and setting the piece of circular wood in it. He walks outside and she follows as he sets the bowl down on the sand, and holds the stone up to the moon.

A faint shadow appears, marking their spot, and she sees now, how they can do it.

It is wonderful and amazing and yes! They can do this! The future is so close and she thinks that if she just reaches out, she can touch it, they can touch it, and they can begin to build it.

She wraps her arms around him, pushing him down into the sand and climbing on top of him to kiss him. They know it is crazy and daring but they are willing to take that risk—to chart a new future for themselves, and their people. His hands wrap around her waist, raising the hem of her skirt, as she grapples with his pants.

Their future opens before them that night and it excites them, urging them on. They share a common goal, a common dream and they believe in it fully. So when he returns from the Thing, and tells her of a new plan she agrees to use their savings and build a boat, defying their Earl in the process. It is a risk she feels they must take.

Lagertha wants to join Ragnar and take that first step into a new land together, as husband and wife. It is in the West that they will begin to build a new life, and a new future for their people, and she tells him this. It is time. Time for the wife to become the warrior again. Time to let go and be free and explore and sail and plant and produce—it is time for a change.

Ragnar knows this.

And as he and Bjorn walk home from the Thing, he is rehearsing his reasoning, practicing how he will tell her that she cannot come.

There is too much risk in this journey, and should he fail, someone will need to stay behind to care for their children. Earl Haraldson will likely have him arrested, and he cannot risk having his wife involved. It is logical. It makes sense that he go. Yes, it is their dream, but as her husband, he must do what he can to keep her and the children safe. She cannot go with him.

 “Fine. You go. I will stay and watch the children.”

She is glaring at him, but remains silent as they wash the laundry together. And she does not speak to him for the rest of the evening. The silence drives him out of their home, to seek reassurance at the bottom of a mug of ale. It provides liquid courage, for what he faces when he comes home is the fury of an angry wife.

“My wife…” he pleads, dodging a well-placed knee aimed at his groin. “I’m so angry with you!” she screams, and he knows she’s serious. But he can’t help smiling at her fury. She is so beautiful when she’s mad.

Their son walks in, breaking them up before it can escalate, and for the moment, roles are reversed, and the child chastises the parents. They retreat to different corners, breathing heavily, ashamed at their behavior.

It’s a tiny crack in their wall of love. But one that’s not hard to repair.

Lagertha lays down in their bed and Ragnar follows, moving her hair away from her neck, and kissing her neck gently. This is the closest to an apology he will offer tonight. And eventually her kisses and allowance of him inside her is her is the closest he will get to forgiveness. Verbal apologies are rare between them. They are too stubbon, too proud.

Ragnar understands her anger, and Lagertha understands why she can’t go. If he is successful, there will be more raids. And he promises her that she will be by his side for them, should he get out of this one alive.

The next night, under the cover of darkness, she sees him off, each feeling anxious, but carrying brave faces while they worry if it is the last time they will see the other alive.

The longer Ragnar is away, the more anxious she becomes.

Their earl’s men have been watching her family and friends like hawks. It is tense in Kattegat, but the town is loyal. They will not give up their men.

During the heaviest thunderstorms, when the sea is roiling, is when she prays the hardest for Ragnar; praying to the gods that her husband will return home. On calm nights she stares off into the ocean, searching with her heart, and hoping that he can feel her there with him and that he is safe. Bjorn and Gyda miss their father, and she comforts them by telling them stories of the gods. She tells them how--through their father--they are descendants of Odin, and she tells her children that Odin will not allow anything to happen to his son.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

What manner of men are these?

It is surely a sign of the end times, as the Bible says the apocalypse will come in the form of the four horsemen. And has it not come to pass? These men are war and conquest, pestilence and death—they raze through the monastery striking with impunity.

These men are dark and they are savage, they must be demons and if they are, then the battle for salvation has begun.

The monks believe it is judgement day.

They are to be the martyrs for the damned, the afflicted and the lost --for they have served their God loyally and with faith. And is their faith not strong in the presence of certain death?

What manner of men are these?

These men that cower in corners in dark robes and strangely shaved heads-- who speak in a strange tongue and devalue treasure, for surely treasure is a measure of worth? And if so, then they do not value themselves.

It is surely a sign that these Westerners are different, that they do not worship the true gods, that their faith is flawed and dangerous. They are a scourge who disbelive and worship a false god, and what manner of man does not need a woman?

For that alone they should be destroyed, for a man is not a man who does not exist without a woman, and is that not the natural order of things?

There are screams and then there is silence, and then there is death all around.

The blood of these strange men is on his hands but it is the way of the gods, regardless of whether their will and a man’s heart are in agreement.

It is done.

And in the silence, Ragnar takes his time, walking the halls of this strange place, exploring, touching, feeling—seeking to understand what manner of men these are. He is alone. But he is not.

One step. Heavy breathing.

Two step. He hears it again. There. A corner.

Perhaps they have missed one.

He raises his axe to strike as he throws the table across the room.

 “Please, don’t kill me!” the man cries out, backing himself into a corner. He is sweating and shaking, clutching something in his hands.

“You speak our language?” Surprise is what stays his hand.

Perhaps this man is worth more than the treasures in the building. There are riches in knowledge, and possibly, understanding.  

-xxx-

Athelstan spends the voyage in prayer, and in fear. He does not know why he has been taken. Perhaps God is testing his faith? He knows who these men are. They are Northmen, and he has seen their ways before. But they terrify him now as they did then, and as the voyage stretches on, the further away he gets from Lindisfarne, is the closest he gets to becoming a slave. All he can do is pray.

 The Northmen talk among each other, ignore the monks. But the one who spared his life continues to stare at him.

The stare is unnerving, and it reminds Athelstan of the way a person studies intently the holy book, or some other curious thing, searching for hidden meaning and secrets yet revealed.

“Why did you spare my life?” he asks. The man steps forward and comes to bend down beside him. “I don’t know yet,” he replies before standing up again and walking off.

The pace of the boat begins to shift and Athelstan looks up in wonder, marveling at the tall bluffs that rise up before him like giants from the sea. They rise into the clouds, and he imagines the heavens at the top—if he could just climb to get there. The great waterfalls are gods tears and it is amazing to behold--  this must be the land of the Northmen.

Athelstan is pulled from the boat and carried through a town square filled with people. He and his brothers walk with the Northmen until the reach a large home, and go inside. It is dark, light only by fire, and they are made to stand back as the man who he has decided is the leader, goes to speak to the man and woman seated before them.

It becomes apparent that there is disagreement, and from that disagreement knowledge is gained. His captor is not the leader. His captor is Ragnar. And Athelstan is a spoil of war. They leave.

-xxx-

 “Father!”

The sight and sound of children is unexpected, and Athelstan watches as a young boy and girl run up to Ragnar and embrace him. It is both frightening and moving at the same time. They have traveled nearly a full day, through hills and mountains until they have arrived at a simpler home, a humble home on the sea shore.

A woman appears in the doorway, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She is like Mary the mother, her golden hair down about her shoulders. But Mary was a virgin, and as she walks up to Ragnar and they embrace, kissing. Athelstan averts his eyes. She is not Mary.

“Priest,” Ragnar calls beckoning him. “This is my family, my children--Bjorn and Gyda, my wife, Lagertha.”

Family. Athelstan is silent as they take him in. How odd he must look here. But he nods at them, and speaks greetings. The children approach him cautiously, the boy rubbing his head. They inspect him as if he is a foreign object, a new toy, and he is left alone with the children to answer their questions as best he can.

“What is wrong with your head?”

If you’re a priest, which god do you like best?”

“There is only one god,” he says smiling. 

But that night, his faith is tested.

Ragnar and Lagertha come to him with open arms and wide smiles, inviting him to their bed. He has never seen a naked woman before; And he is terrified at the sight of Ragnar's bareness. He tries to avert his eyes as they make him an offer to join them. But they do not force him, and for that he is grateful.

They leave him to go back to each other, and it is all he can do but pray. Pray for deliverance, atonement for whatever sin he has committed to deserve to be in this strange place.  These people are heathens, and sinners, they are faithless and they have no shame. No modesty.

Yet he cannot drown out the sounds they make, or the words they speak to each other. And he cannot stop himself from watching. It must be as Adam and Eve once were, glorious in their nakedness, sharing each others’ love. A woman carved from a man’s rib to make him whole… that is what Athelstan sees as he watches the smooth lines of Lagertha’s breasts crest above Ragnar’s chest.

They are kind. 

They feed him and give him shelter and they ask no more of him than they are willing to do themselves. They are curious, and he begins to imagine himself a minister to the heathens, like Paul on the road to Damascus, spreading truth like John the Baptist. It gives him comfort, a false sense of security, an illusion with which he can comfort himself in these early days. 

In the glow of firelight he regales the family with stories of the Christian God, and of the Christian faith, and they test it with their questions, and challenge him with their own stories. He begins to see similarities, uncomfortable coincidences. Their gods are older than his own, ancient. Slowly he begins to believe that they are _alive.  
_

It is a trick of the devil to seduce the mind into making enemies into friends.

And Ragnar Lothbrok must be the devil.

Ragnar takes him to Earl Haraldson and uses Athelstan’s own words. He realizes that Ragnar has no interest in his God, and he is devastated. He is worse than Judas betraying Jesus, he has betrayed his people.

_The mouths of fools are their ruin; they trap themselves with their lips._

He is a fool.

Athelstan sits on the ground, refusing to move and preparing himself to be killed. But to his surprise, Ragnar does not do it—instead, releasing the ropes and walking away. Athelstan looks around him and sees two of his brothers hanging in the square. He gets up quickly.

 It is better to deal with the devil one knows.

What manner of man is Ragnar Lothbrok? There is no answer yet. Mercurial and curious, impulsive yet guarded. Ambitious and indifferent at the same time. Ragnar is a practice in contradiction, a point made more strongly when Athelstan is left to care for Ragnar and Lagertha’s children, as they prepare to voyage to England again.

This world is strange, Athelstan thinks. Just when he feels as if God has abandoned him, small miracles happen. Though he is a slave, it seems as if the family does not want him to see himself that way.

.

.

“Why did you invite me to your bed, and to share your wife? Is marriage not sacred here?”

The question comes as they work the sheep pens, cleaning the waste, and preparing the animals to be shorn of their heavy winter coats. It is just the two of them—Ragnar repairing the fence, and Athelstan holding the plow. A full moon has passed since his arrival, and he cannot stop thinking about that first night. They had challenged his vows and nearly broken them with their beauty.

There have been other times he has watched them together, but that was the only time he had been invited to their bed.

“I needed to know if I could trust you,” Ragnar says without looking up from his work. “With my wife. With my children.”

“And if I had said yes?”

“Then I would have killed you. And we would not be having this conversation.”

“But how does that signify trust?” It is all so confusing.

Ragnar turns to him, studying Athelstan so intently he flushes, and lowers his head.

“It showed me what manner of man you are,” Ragnar says. “A man of faith. A man of his word, and that is how I knew I could trust you, priest. It is how my wife knew she could trust you.

Trust.  There is trust between them. A foundation on which to build.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The feel of the sea beneath them makes her feel free, and her heart swells as the ocean rises and falls around them. Her shield once again in use instead of a decoration on their wall. The feel of cold steel in her hands is delightful, and she is glad her leathers still fit right, even after two babies.

But Lagertha’s instincts are screaming. Perhaps it has come from being a mother, but something is not quite right. She knows most of these men— Leif, Floki, Arne, Torstein and of course Rollo—they are their friends, and Rollo is uncle to her children. But one man keeps staring at her, hard. Her brows crease and she frowns looking at him. Rollo glances between them, and goes to the man, slamming him to the ground and choking him, threatening him for daring to look at her.

 She decides to keep an eye on him—Knut—she learns, is his name. She does not trust him, and she tells Ragnar so. He leans into her ear, whispering. He is one of Earl Haraldson’s men.

 Lagertha knows her husband’s ambition has often blinded him to threats and dangers but she sees them all clearly. This trip to England is unlikely to be as un-eventful as the last. And as they arrive on the western shore, it is proven true. They are greeted by a group of warriors on horses, and they quickly slaughter them, leaving blood on the beach. It’s invigorating. It’s been a long time since she has had the opportunity to join in the fight.

They make their way up the hill, finally reaching the top, where they see a large town spread before them. It is not even noon yet. She preps for battle, but Ragnar places a hand on her arm. They will make camp here tonight, and attack tomorrow. She looks at him questioningly. Tomorrow, he says again, to them all. And so they set up their camp, and she falls asleep in a foreign land, under different stars, her husband wrapped around her. She moves against him suggestively, arching into him, and he presses against her, letting her feel his desire. She turns around to face him, kissing him gently. They have their own tent, slightly away from the others, and it’s a warm night. They try not to be too loud.

The next morning, at the sound of bells chiming, they attack, slipping through empty streets, raiding homes, plundering goods. It is what they do. And it is glorious.

Until she catches Knut raping a Saxon woman in her home, an abuse she cannot allow to stand. She charges him, knocking him back, and they fight. He strikes her several times, but she manages to get the upper hand, ramming her sword into his stomach taking her time in taking it out, making sure she draws out his death inch, by agonizing inch. She tells Ragnar what she has done, and why, and he is unfazed. This raid has been successful, and the loss of one man, is not significant. They are loaded with spoils, and the trip back to the beach is quiet. But when they arrive, they are greeted by more warriors. Twice as many as there are of them.

The battle is pitched as she fights alongside her husband, spilling Saxon blood, and getting covered in it. They manage to drive the Saxons off, killing most and leaving only a few. But they have lost four of their own. They bury their brethren on the beach, drinking to their bravery from stolen chalices, and celebrating their arrival in Valhalla. It has been invigorating. She has missed the battlefield, missed it more than she cared to admit to herself. But here, she is set free.

Ragnar’s face is splashed with blood, and she imagines she must look the same. He is glorious in war, and by the way he looks at her, she knows her husband is thinking the same things.  He declares they will make camp here tonight, and she smiles, walking back into the woods beckoning him to follow. They slip away into the trees. And this time, they aren’t so quiet.

As they lay under the stars, listening to each other breathe, her fingers trace the muscles on his chest. Her husband will be a great man. And she will be a great woman. And they will be great together.

Their return to Kattegat is victorious, the people cheer their arrival. But she is shocked when Haraldson orders Ragnar’s arrest when they tell him that Knut is dead. And that shock turns to anger, when the earl accuses Ragnar of killing him in cold blood and she is furious when he tries to take the fall for her. Their group reacts violently as Ragnar is taken away, and she screams his name.

 He looks at her, shaking his head, and she is forced to let them take her husband. It nearly breaks her.

-xxx-

Rollo’s home is alive with singing and laughter, the small raiding party celebrating Ragnar’s release, and Rollo’s Deception. It is genius, the brothers are genius, and they can all drink to that.  

Husband and wife sit together sipping out of each other’s cups, as Bjorn, drunk off one cup of ale, slumps sleepily between them, and their daughter Gyda sits on her mother’s lap, head on her shoulder. It is a good night. A great night. Even their priest joins in. It is well. It is perfect.

But their happiness is shattered by a bang of the door and an attack rooted in revenge.

Rollo takes the children, while Lagertha and Ragnar and the rest of them stand ready to defend.

“We are unarmed.” The men attack. And so do they, and it is a bloody, bloody affair.

 They pile the bodies into carts, dropping them at Earl Haraldson’s door step. The earl has drawn first blood. He has started this war, and they are now determined to finish it.

 They are angry. Angry at the Earl for invading their home threatening their children and their friends, and killing one of their brothers in arms.

-xxx-

The war comes to them in the form of a raiding party. And Ragnar’s trust in the priest is put to the test.

Arrows pierce through the walls of their home and Lagertha quickly grabs an axe tossing Athelstan a sword. They move quickly, gathering Bjorn and Gyda as they prepare to defend their house and their lives. The door bursts open and Ragnar staggers in wounded. They move to help but he pushes them away, shielding them with his body and pushing them toward the back of the house. There is a door in the floor, and they slip into it, and down into a crawl space.  

Athelstan, Bjorn, Gyda and Lagertha crawl through the tunnels and emerge in the forest, away from the screams. But Ragnar is left behind. 

The agony of dying men and women rings in his ears but he keeps the children low to the ground as they make their way to a boat. Quietly, they slip inside, and push off from the shore.

.

.

Lagertha prays as they float past their house, watching as it burns to the ground, their animals slaughtered, their workers dying on the sand. She sees her husband  emerge on a cliff above them, and he falls into the water.

 It is Athelstan who jumps in to rescue him. And they row like mad to get to safety--Lagertha and Athelstan praying to their respective gods.

He hovers over them all as the family works to save Ragnar’s life. His master is pale, barely breathing and unconscious, his body bloody, and the wounds large and open. It is grotesque, and Athelstan believes Ragnar may likely die. He watches as they staunch the bleeding with fire and the smell makes him turn away. They seal the wounds with strange herbs, and they chant and they pray and the children cry as they look down on their father, possibly dying in front of them.

All he can do in this moment is pray for them, the children especially.  Athelstan knows all too well what it’s like for a child to watch a parent die.

And it must truly be a miracle, because no man should wake from this. But Ragnar does. And there are tears in Lagertha’s eyes, and Athelstan’s too, because he recognizes a miracle when he sees one, and he thinks there must be something in Ragnar Lothbrok that has made God agree.

He is first to notice that Ragnar is awake, and he goes to get his master water, but Ragnar catches his hand.

“You saved me. You saved my family, and for that I am grateful.”

There is comprehension. The relationship has changed.

-xxx-

They are now homeless but they are still at home. Home is each other, and together they are a family. The summer is spent at Floki’s house, laying low and watching over Ragnar as he recovers. Athelstan listens to the stories of their gods over warm fires. He hears about Odin, who lives in Valhalla, and he learns him by another name too—the All Father. It reminds him of the opening to the Lord’s Prayer. “Our father, which art in heaven…”

They are magical, these heathen gods, these living gods who his Pagan friends believe still walk among them. And at night there is talk of creation, of how the earth was made, and as Athelstan sleeps, he contemplates the stories of gods and men.


	5. Chapter 5

Something is changing.

“Hail Earl Ragnar!”

“Hail Earl Ragnar!” The crowd chants his name as he stands, his body aching from the fight. He takes one step, then two, and falls into the arms of his wife. His family is safe. She is safe.

But he is changed.

As he enters the great hall, he is sobered by what has happened. It was never his dream to become earl. But this is what Odin has given him. And he will use this chance to chart a different future, for his wife, his children, his friends and his people.

Their future is to the west. And it is there they will go.

He looks at Lagertha, a smile teasing at the edges of his lips. He reaches out for her hand, and she giveS it to him, smiling back. They are no longer farmers. And their home is gone. But in this place, they will build a new one.

The favor of the gods is strong with him. And he knows this when his wife gives him news. She is with child. It has been 10 years since they had Gyda. And they have tried so many, many times. He is still hurt, his body sore, but he uses his cane to lean down, and whisper to her belly. “I know you are a boy,” he says “my son”. It has been a long time for them. But the seer told Ragnar he would have many sons, and now they will have another child.

Lagertha loves her husband. She loves her children, and she would die for them all.

-xxx-

That evening he sits between his wife’s legs, letting her wash and play in his hair. Her fingers are deft and light as she massages his scalp, working out the tangles and combing away the knots.

The children and Athelstan are asleep in their respective chambers. They are alone for the first time in months, neither speaking, but enjoying the intimacy of the silence, familiar and warm.  He lays a hand on her knee as she smiles down on him. Lagertha plants a kiss on the top of his head, and keeps at her work, humming softly as she begins to twist and weave his locks, finishing the long braid and taking her time in wrapping it in leather strings.

When she finishes, he turns to kneel in front of her as she lays back in the chair, looking down at his face. She is beautiful, he thinks, not for the first time. He remembers when he first saw her; she was like a streak of gold in the sky cutting down men twice her size. Her hair flowed loosely around her face like a halo, and she was as brave in the face of death as any warrior he’d ever seen. She was both glorious and terrifying. He and Rollo had seen her at the same time and they weren’t the only ones watching. But it was Ragnar who inquired.

He learned her name: _Lagertha._ And was told her father was the great warrior Haakon Sigurdsson. He was also warned: Sigurdsson would kill to defend his daughter’s honor. But Ragnar was a determined and patient man. He approached Sigurdsson, but was rejected, time and time again. Still, he kept coming, an effort to prove to Sigurdsson that his desire for Lagertha was sincere, and his love, honest. And eventually, Sigurdsson consented—but on one condition—that Ragnar must ask Lagertha for permission. And that she must say yes.

Ragnar moves his hands up his wife’s dress, raising it to her thighs and letting his fingers caress her gently. She jumps a little and gasps. And he smiles, ducking under her dress to put his face between her legs, inhaling the scent of her before pushing her legs open wider, and tasting her heat. And when he comes back up, his beard his wet, but so is she. His leg is still injured, but it doesn’t bother him now, as he picks up his pregnant wife, and carries her to bed. Soon Ragnar will be healed enough to travel west again. But Lagertha is pregnant, and this time, she is alright with being left at home.

**-xxx-**

It has been a strange time, transitioning from a farmer’s wife, to an earl and Lagertha is still adjusting to life in Kattegat. There are many new duties, responsibilities, and she finds that she is having to learn as she goes along.

The blessing of babies is among her favorite duties, and she loves to hold them in her arms and smile into their tiny faces. They smell sweet, and they bring her happiness. And then there are the disputes, over land, paternity, and even divorces. But she thinks she is managing it well. These are teaching times too, for her children. Gyda is naturally kind, but Bjorn—he is so much like his father, headstrong and determined. He is also rash. And so, when Siggy, the wife of former Earl Haraldson comes to their home, and Bjorn demands she be set out, Lagertha sees opportunity.

“And what would you do if it were me?” She asks her son. “And Ragnar would have died? We would be here, in her position. And what would you hope that she say?”

She sees the light in Bjorn’s eyes as he understands now.

“I would hope that she would invite us in,” he says slowly. Lagertha smiles.

 And that’s exactly what she does. Siggy and her daughter Thyri, join their household. And Lagertha gains both an advisor and a friend.  Siggy has been here before and she knows how it works. The weeks turn into months, and Ragnar and his warriors are still away. Her stomach grows, and she can feel the baby kicking about.

Pregnant. They have tried for so long, and finally, a baby.

 She has been sicker than she ever was with Bjorn and Gyda, and sometimes there is pain. She finds she tires more easily, and even simple chores seem to wipe her out. But her children make her smile when they come to her and lay their hands and ears on her belly, talking and sometimes trying to tickle their baby brother, inside. And Athelstan dotes on her, rubbing her feet and keeping her water cup full.

Ragnar has said it is a boy, and she believes him. He knew the sex of Bjorn and Gyda before they were born. And it excites and warms her that when he returns she will get to introduce him to his son. Hopefully he can make it back in time to be here when the baby comes.

These are blissful days.

But that excitement turns to fear, when, unexpectedly, she begins to bleed. Something is wrong in her body, she can feel it, and the baby isn’t moving anymore. The bleeding intensifies, and it is accompanied by sharp pain. But it is too early. She is only six months into this pregnancy and…

Oh gods...

Lagertha prays to Freyja to make her labor stop, but those prayers go unanswered, and soon her water breaks, and she knows that she will lose this child. The miscarriage is agonizing, and all she can do is cry.

Siggy cleans up the bloodied towels and linens.

It is Athelstan who carries her to the bath, and gently washes her torn body.

The children curl up next to her in bed, and stay there.

And they all grieve.

And when Ragnar returns soon thereafter, expecting to see her stomach still round, he is devastated at the loss of his unborn son. It is a loss they do not understand.

Why? After leaving them barren for so long it feels wrong that the gods would give them a child, and take it away. It hurts.

But as Lagertha begins to recover physically, Ragnar does not. And it worries her as he begins to spend his days alone in the house, or drinking on porch. They are going to Uppsala soon, the sacred place, to speak to the gods and she does everything to she can to relieve her husband’s pain, but it does not seem to matter. One day, it becomes too much. He is on the stairs drinking, while she and the children accept the offerings of the townspeople. She allows Gyda to take over, and goes to her husband.

“Ragnar, are you not happy that we are going to Uppsala?”

“Happy? Of _course_ I am happy. Why should I not be _happy_? When we reach Uppsala we shall ask the gods why they give with one hand and take away with another. Why do they make me earl, and kill my son?”

For the first time, she sees something dark in his face. It is fleeting, but she has seen it, and a knot begins to form in her stomach.

“We can have more sons,” she tells her husband with a strength in her voice she does not feel.

“Have we not tried?” Ragnar shoots back, taking another drink of ale.

Lagertha inhales deeply, calming her shaking nerves. She has always known he wanted children, and she has always had faith that there would be more than just Bjorn and Gyda. But now that faith is shaken.

He comes that evening to lay beside her, to kiss her and stroke her hair. This is his apology, but it doesn’t feel sincere. They must get to Uppsala.

And when she enters the great hall of the gods, her path takes her to Freyja where she kneels and begins to pray.  She asks that the gods make her blind, or deaf, anything, but to _please_ , _please_ give her a son. Before it is too late.

They have been together for 15 years, and they have weathered the storms together. She has never been unsure of Ragnar’s love for her, until now.

While she is in her prayer, Ragnar goes to Odin. He has grown tired of waiting, impatient with the fates. He is earl now, and he must think about the future. And that future means more sons to carry his legacy. This loss is a sign that his wife is barren. She can no longer give him what he desires.  They had married for love, but now he must make a more practical choice. If he is to be great, there must be a sacrifice.

Ragnar wants to know _who_ will bear his sons. He sees Lagertha passing by, and locks eyes with her, and quickly turns away, swallowing the guilt. He believes in the prophecies, and he knows in his heart that he is destined for more children.

That night, the drums begin to beat faster, harder, and the sounds of easy laughter give way more carnal reverberations. They sit as a family, together, but Lagertha knows something is wrong. She sees the way Ragnar looks at the door, and her heart beats heavy in her chest.

“Stay.” It is a simple request with a deeper meaning.  The children look at each other, understanding passing between their wide eyes.

“Why can’t you stay?” She is trying to stay strong, but the words come out pained, pleading. But a Viking women does not cry, even as her husband leaves.

.

.

The first time at Uppsala, Ragnar and Lagertha did not know each other as they traveled alone. Yet they prayed similar prayers. And shortly thereafter, they married each other.

The second time they went, they went together and shared their new love freely with others. They prayed again, and were blessed with a son, and then a daughter.

Lagertha does not know that Ragnar walks slowly among the writhing bodies, lost in his own thoughts and feelings, looking at the women and wondering who it will be that will bear him more sons. She does not know that he is tempted to lay with many of them, but none are quite right. And when he returns to their shelter when the hour is late, he sees Bjorn and Gyda curled up with their mother, all three asleep. It is with a guilty heart that he lays down beside them, separate and apart.

He has thought about this for months now, since the loss of his son. And he has brought the monk, Athelstan, as their family offering. It is the best he has to offer. A holy man, and a friend.  But Athelstan is not deemed worthy. And the gods have something different in mind. They have chosen Ragnar’s dear friend Leif, who is sacrificed in the priest’s place.

.

_Leif will only be the first of many friends who will die for Ragnar’s sins. The Christian God and the gods of the Norsemen are in agreement on certain things. They have ensured that Ragnar Lothbrok will be great. But he has failed the test of faith, and he will be punished for it. Their only regret is that his wife will suffer as well._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in need of a beta/editor. If you're interested, please let me know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Bjorn is now old enough to travel with his father. And after they leave Uppsala they travel to Gotaland under the orders of King Horik.

It has been three days since they have been gone, and it is quiet at court in Kattegat. It has been three days since Lagertha has eaten, her mind and her heart heavy. Everyone has noticed, but only Gyda speaks out.

“My mind is troubled,” Lagertha admits. It is Siggy who tells her she should go to the seer. But she is afraid. She does not want to admit the truth because she does not know if she is strong enough to receive it.

Still, she goes anyway. 

“I am worried about my husband,” she tells the seer. “I have strange and terrifying dreams. Dark shadows.”

He tells her that they are coming to take something from her.

 “My husband? My children?”

But he will tell her no more, only that Ragnar is in danger from the magical world. But it is confirmation enough. Ragnar is in danger, of this she knows. But she also believes he is in danger from himself.

She cannot give him what he wants. She has failed as a woman, and as a wife.

Still, there are no tears.

Even as Lagertha whispers fervently to Freyja, in Gotaland, Bjorn sees something he does not like.

Though he is a child, he is old enough to know the ways of adults, and of his people. And he is wise.

He has grown up admiring his father, and wanting to be like him. He has grown up in a house with a family and with love that he believes is unbreakable. His parents worship each other, and he knows that their family is different from others.

It is Arne, his father’s good friend, who tries to provide the young boy comfort. “Your father and mother are a famous couple,” he says, trying to reassure Bjorn, “and they love each other. Everyone knows that. So don’t begrudge your father some harmless fun.”

 But Arne’s words have no effect. And Bjorn knows that what he sees is not harmless. There are shadows in the night, and he jumps at the sound of wolves. It is not right. And he is afraid. He tries to intercede, but his are the protestations of a child, and they go ignored by the men.

And when Bjorn sees his father laying with a woman in the way he lays with his mother, he is disgusted. In Bjorn’s eyes, Ragnar is the greatest man, the greatest warrior he has ever known. But that illusion is now shattered. And in its place, is a man he hates. And he tells his father so.

And while initially dismissive of his son, Ragnar is conflicted over what he has done, and the gods are not pleased.

_They have given him the tools to build a kingdom, but he has become arrogant, and impertinent, greedy and impatient. At Uppsala, Ragnar prayed the wrong prayer—asking who would bear his sons. Not when they would come. And so they gather among themselves, and they make a decision. The end will be the same. But the path to get there, will be forever changed. They will give and they will take, and it will repeat for Ragnar, and for Lagertha, and they will bind them here in this place of gray, together yet apart, forever._

As Ragnar lays with Aslaug filling her with new life, the gods are taking one away.

Lagertha is left alone to care for the sick.

Her sacrifices are rejected and she comes to find the seer’s prophecy has come true. Gyda, her precious daughter, is gone. The gods give her no signs of favor or comfort. And she feels lost from them, disconnected, abandoned and alone. And though it pains the gods to do this to their child, judgement has already been rendered.

 _They created Ragnar and Lagertha together, two people from one form. And as one has fallen, the other must suffer as well. The gods bound them together before they were born, and their fates are sealed for eternity. They were meant to conquer together, to be the living manifestations of Odin and Frigg. But Ragnar has been tempted and failed the test, and Lagertha must suffer as well_.

The gods continue with their plan, pitting brother against brother, and starting an unhallowed war. Ragnar will be great, but he will lose everything he once cherished. And soon another friend, Arne, is gone, a casualty of a brothers’ conflict. And another friend, Floki, is near death.

In the midst of this Ragnar learns there has been one more. His cherished daughter, Gyda is dead.

When will it end? It is staggering, overwhelming, and it causes him to lay down his sword and shield, and to just walk away.

How can one man be given so much, and lose a child, a brother and a friend? He has betrayed family and been betrayed by family. The scales are not equal.

When he returns home to Kattegat, his brother Rollo in chains, he sees his village ravaged by disease and death. He is weary, and he is blood sick. He feels as if he has been beaten, punished for a transgression that he does not understand.

And he tired. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

All he wants is to rest, and sleep. But that will not come.

 “Who is Aslaug?”

His wife’s question breaks him.

 They fight and she strikes him, each blow harder than the last. He believes she aims to kill him, and a part of him wishes that she does.  He promises her that it is over, that it only happened once, and will never happen again, and he is sincere in it. And when he tells Lagertha that he does not love Aslaug, it is true. He can _never_ love Aslaug. But he does **not** tell her that Aslaug is pregnant.

He pleads with Lagertha to forgive him—to at least try-- and he kisses her, and holds her as she struggles against his body until she cannot fight anymore, and he tries to sex the pain and the hurt away. But this isn’t like before. They’ve had fights, but not like this. And they’ve made love, but not like this--it’s almost as if they are saying goodbye but without words, and Ragnar knows underneath the moans, his wife is crying inside, and he buries his head in her shoulder because he is mourning for them as well.

For the first time he is shamed, and after the blows he has been dealt, he is fearful for another loss. In the days that follow he prays feverishly to Odin for some sort of redemption, a second chance to get it right. But there is no answer.

Until there is… when Aslaug arrives in Kattegat. Pregnant, with his child, and he is forced to watch his world begin to fall apart as she walks through the door of his house.

.

.

Viking women do not cry.  Even in the face of her husband’s adultery, she will not allow herself to shed a tear. Lagertha can only stare blankly at Aslaug’s stomach, heavy and full, and feel the gods’ reproach to her own barren womb. It is done. There is surely nothing lower for her than this.

And so, she tries.

She tries so very, very hard. For the sake of her son, she tries to stay and to make it work. But as each day passes with Aslaug in their home, Lagertha comes to hate her husband a little more.

She tries.

 _How_ could she ever have thought they would be happy forever? Forever has a time limit, and it is clear that they have reached theirs. Lagertha knows she cannot stay here. But Siggy counsels her otherwise. _There is a chance Aslaug is lying. Maybe it is not Ragnar’s son?_ But she knows better.  They are all whispering in her ear—Rollo, Siggy, Athelstan, Floki, Helga…Torstein. _Stay. Please stay. Don’t go. Don’t leave…_

Yet it is her own husband who seals her fate.

Ragnar has not felt fear since he was a boy, and yet he feels it every day now. The storm is coming, and he is trying to fend it off. He is trying to make it better, to ease his wife’s pain.  He tells her there are “arrangements,” that it is possible for an earl to have two wives.  And he is buoyed when help comes from an unexpected place, and Aslaug agrees.

But Lagertha feels sick. And when Aslaug tells her it is good for the children, she feels cornered. That night, as they lie in bed, they’ve never been so far apart, and her husband tells her that she _must_ accept it. He says that losing their son has broken his heart, and that he must take care of Aslaug and his unborn child. He tells her it is his responsibility as a man, and as a father. But it is clear he has forgotten his responsibility to her and her son.

She tried.

Athelstan tries to talk to her but she cannot hear the priest. And Siggy begs her but her friend’s words have no effect.

Stay for us. Stay for Kattegat. Stay for yourself, you don’t have to stay for _him_.

She tried.

Floki and Torstein arrive to see her off. And they too ask her to stay, telling her that Ragnar needs her.

She tried.

It is Bjorn who helps her pack her things. He is supposed to be a man now. But there are tears falling from a child’s eyes. He has lost his sister, and now he must choose whether to lose his father, or his mother.

Torstein urges him to stay with his father. And when his mother finally asks him to choose, he chooses Ragnar. But he is crying, and so is his mother, and so is Floki, and Siggy, Torstein, Athelstan. It is a painful separation and is tearing them all down. Each of them had believed in all that was Ragnar and Lagertha, that the two were the best of all of them—of their people.  And it is not to be.

When Ragnar comes home and sees his son’s face, his heart begins to race.  Bjorn that tells him Lagertha is gone.

It is panic that fuels him as he rides after her as fast as he can.  He cannot picture a future without her, and he pleads with her not to go, to stay. He tells her she is abandoning him, and she shoots him in the heart, twisting his words back on him, that it is fate. After all, is that not what he has said of Aslaug? That it was fate that brought them together?

It is tearing at his sanity, this loss. And when his son comes over the hill to join his mother, it is more than Ragnar can take.  He breaks when his wife says she is leaving him—divorcing him. For a woman to divorce her husband is a shame upon the man, an indictment of his failures to his family. He had never fathomed divorce, never considered his wife would do it. Would she angry? Yes. But this… how had he been so blind? His fists are gripping her dress, refusing to let go, and she snatches it away as they ride off. The gods have taken everything now, save for his title, and everything he has touched is turning to dust in his hands.

 He can only stand by, helpless, as the family he has loved leaves him behind.

His wife, and son are gone. He has gained an earldom and power but he has paid for that with his heart.

It feels as if a part of his rib has been ripped from his side, and he falls to his knees, defeated and alone. Hours pass before he can gather enough strength to return. And it Aslaug who greets him when he walks back into the house—now empty. He is shattered. He does not accept this. This is NOT the end. But yet, it is still done, and all he can do is mourn.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The great house has lost its warmth, and they all exist now as shadows, circling each other in a dark place. There is no love here, no joy. All that remains behind is a bitter Ragnar, and his new wife, Aslaug.

It is a dreary day when Athelstan comes to find Ragnar nearly passed out drunk in a corner of the great hall. The fires have gone out, and it is cold. He tries to slip past quietly but Ragnar sees him.

“Priest,” he calls out. “Come sit with me.”

 This is not the same man Athelstan first encountered at the monastery in Northumbria. That man had been a giant—both monstrous and magnificent. The imposter before him is drunk and unkempt. Athelstan feels pity, but he also feels contempt. This has been going on for months, and he is growing tired of picking up the pieces of his master’s destruction.

It is clear to him that Ragnar is being punished, and Athelstan believes he deserves it.

“Tell me, Priest. Why is it that the gods give me an earldom, and take my family away? What does your God say about these things?” Ragnar is staring at him intently with bloodshot eyes (or maybe he’s been crying?) and Athelstan decides it’s likely both are true.

“In the Bible, there is a story about a man named Job,” he says resignedly. “Job was a wealthy man, a pious man. And one day Satan bragged to God that he could tempt Job away from him. And God accepts this bet on one condition, that Satan cannot kill Job.”

Ragnar is quiet, listening, and Athelstan continues.

“So Satan goes about his work to tempt Job. In one day, Job he gets word that his sheep, servants and all of his 10 children have died.”

“Ten children, all alive?” Ragnar asks. Athelstan smiles. “It was the standard, back in those days. Some saints had even more.”

“Go on,” Ragnar says.

“Job tore his clothes, and questioned God. He wailed in grief, and shaved his head in piety. His friends question why Job is being punished. They suggest that he has not been prayerful enough. He has not been devoted enough. He has committed some evil deed that must be punished. And for Job, it all drive shim nearly insane. But then God steps in. And he speaks to them all, showing them that what they think they know, is in fact, very little.”

“It is God who says that his own power is so great, that no man can understand his ways. And he restores Job after allowing him to suffer. And he rewards Job for his faith.”

“Are you saying I am being tested by the gods? Ragnar asks.

“I do not assume to know what your gods are doing. But--”Athelstan hesitates again.

“But what?” Ragnar rises slightly and gets closer looking at him, his eyes wide. “Speak your truth, priest.”

“--But God’s lesson is that he alone gives blessings, and that those distributions may be unequal among men. And he can also take them away, in equal, or unequal measure. Job’s faith grew weak, and the test nearly killed him. Some would say he even failed the test. But the truth is that whatever we may face, we must be firm in our belief.”

“My faith…” Ragnar says quietly. “My _faith_ is what has caused me to lose my wife, and my son.”

It is this refusal to accept consequence that enrages Athelstan. It is a lie and both he and Ragnar know it. But he is done being polite.

“It was not your faith. It was _you_.” Athelstan says loudly.

Athelstan has never yelled, nor raised his voice, and at the sudden anger directed toward him, Ragnar sits up—suddenly sober.

“What did you say, _priest_?” It is a threat, and a warning. But Athelstan does not care. If no one else will tell Ragnar the truth, he will.

“Where were _you_ when your daughter died? What were you _doing_ while your wife suffered alone? _I_ helped her mourn Gyda. And _I_ picked Lagertha up to change her clothes. It was _me_ who washed her body and dried her tears. And yet _I_ am ­not her husband.  You speak of faith yet you don’t believe--Neither in your gods nor in mine.”

Athelstan is shaking he is so angry. But what he has said is true. It is all Ragnar’s fault—and his misery is well deserved. He leaves the great hall.

And Ragnar, though still his master, does not stop him, because Athelstan is the only person who has dared to speak truth to power.

The pagan noble, chastised by a Christian lamb.

**-xxx-**

The days stretch on as Aslaug’s stomach stretches too. A few weeks later, the fog lifts as the sound of new life awakens the deadened hall.

A son for Ragnar Lothbrok.

For the first time in nearly a year, Ragnar is …content. The child brings life back into Kattegat, and he feels as if the gods are finally done punishing him.  Ubbe’s birth is quickly followed by Hvitserk, and nearly a year after that, Aslaug is pregnant again with their third child.

Three years. It will be three years since he lost a part of himself, and while his tears have long since dried, some nights find him in beds with women who resemble his wife. They are always blond and curvy, with eyes the color of the sky. But he is still not satisfied. It is just something to knock the edge off, a temporary fix to a wound that has not quite healed.

He has tried to be discreet in these matters, but Aslaug knows. And when she catches him blatantly flirting with their new servant girl she confronts him with her knowledge, and he denies.  She tells him that she has visions, and that she has _seen_ what he’s done and _who_ he has done it with. He tries to smooth it over with charm and a seductive smile, with kisses and words, and she relents, because he is all she has. And she’s not strong enough to do as Lagertha did.

Neither would describe the place they are in as happy. But it is good…for now. Besides, Ragnar’s mind is preoccupied with other things. Soon he and King Horik’s men will depart for England again. It will be the first time in three years that he has left Viking soil. He has missed the ocean, and missed the freedom. It is new opportunity, an escape from the problems of home.

Most of his relationships have changed these past three years. But one that has continued to remain strong is the bond he shares with Athelstan. The priest has guided him through his darkness, and back into the light. He has spoken truth’s Ragnar did not want to hear, but needed to at the same time.  Athelstan has seen his highs, and it has been the priest that has cleaned up after his lows. The monk has earned his freedom. He is no longer a slave.

And now they can be friends.

As they battle in the sand, Ragnar asks whether Athelstan he misses England.

“No. Yes. Sometimes,” he admits.

Ragnar says they will be going back to England, and it has been a long time since Athelstan has seen Saxon shores. He is…conflicted about this—about how he will respond when his old life catches up to his new one.

 They continue on in sparring, and he doesn’t know what makes him ask, but Athelstan poses his own question: “Do you miss them?”

The monk has grown bold over the years, surprising Ragnar with an inner strength he doubts Athelstan knows he possess.  He drops his sword and looks to his house, seeing Aslaug, Ubbe and Hvitserk standing there.  It has been three years since Lagertha and Bjorn left. The ache in his chest has dulled. He has a new wife, and two new sons, a third on the way. But the pain is still there, and a single thought, or mention can make it bloom again.

“Yes,” Ragnar says quietly. “All the time.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

It is hard to rebuild a life from scratch when a person has already lived a complete one. It’s even harder to rebuild when there are barely any tools with which to do construction. But that is what she has done, for herself and for her son.

Leaving was the most difficult decision she has ever made, and she supposes it is her _fate_ to choose the hardest way possible. But the gods have made a way for her, and even if it has been difficult, it is still a way forward. Forward is the only direction she and her son can go.

Lagertha sits near a tree on a hill away from the compound, staring in the hills and mountains in the distance. Her clothes are beautiful, more grand and expensive than anything she wore in Kattegat, and she has not participated in any farming, or food preparation or any household work since becoming the wife of Earl Sigvard.

She misses that life, those times.

She has gone from a shield-maiden, to a farmer’s wife, an earl’s wife, and now—a trophy wife. And she is miserable, and she has been miserable since the day the she left Kattegat.

The marriage to Sigvard is one of opportunity fueled by a lack of options, and, she is forced to admit --desperation. They had left with nothing but the clothes on their back, and a few treasured things. And soon, money was in short supply. Wherever they went, whispers would follow…the spurned wife of Ragnar Lothbrok—the great Lagertha, fallen and betrayed.

Her pride would not allow her to break.

She had ignored it at first as she had ignored Sigvard at first, assuming, correctly, that he was not interested in her as a person, but what she represented: her ex-husband.  But the earl was persistent, and she had Bjorn to take care of. And so, she accepted. In the beginning, he was kind. But as Bjorn got older and began to look more and more like his father, Sigvard grew resentful toward him but Lagertha would not allow him to lay hands on her son. So she took the blows, herself. And it took everything within her power not to strike back.

Early on the politics of Hedeby were made public and plain.  She knew Sigvard was a weak leader, and by the looks at court, there were many who wished him dead. But it did not mean they necessarily wanted _her_ in power. Some still looked at her with suspicion, just for being Ragnar Lothbrok’s ex-wife. And then there were those who feared her, recalling Lagertha, the shield-maiden. And so, she stayed in her place, and suffered the abuse silently.

It has been four years since she divorced her husband and left her home, but it feels like another lifetime. She tries not to think of it. But sometimes it happens anyway.  Some nights she dreams of Ragnar holding her, loving her, and making love to her. But when she wakes up in the morning and sees Sigvard there, she is reminded of all that she has lost. It is happening more and more lately. She sleeps lightly now, afraid her thoughts will betray her in her sleep.

And now Bjorn is asking more and more about his father. He is nearly a man, and Lagertha knows she will one day soon have to go back. It is a reunion she is dreading. But she cannot keep her son away from his father, and he is old enough to make that choice.

It is all that she can do to temper her son, especially as Sigvard tests him, deliberately jabbing at him with his words. Bjorn can see the bruise on her lips, from where Sigvard has hit her. He is angry. So very, very angry but she needs him to be still just a little while longer. She pleads with her son with her eyes, and there is an unspoken conversation between mother and son that goes on at the dinner table unnoticed by all at court.

Lagertha knows that soon it will all be over. She plays weak, as to not show her hand. The blows may hurt her body, but they strengthen her mind, and her resolve. Physical pain she can handle, emotional pain is another matter. In this time between times she stands still, gathering her strength for what she knows is ahead. She will have to confront her past, and to hand over her greatest treasure to the man who broke her heart. What will she say? What will she do? And most importantly, how will she _feel_?

When Bjorn comes running up to the house, pulling her away into another room and urgently bringing her news, she knows that _soon_ is _now_. There has been an attack on Kattegat he says, and Jarl Borg’s forces have taken the city while Ragnar was away. Bjorn tells her Ragnar’s family is in hiding and there’s a stab in her heart at the words, _His family._ He has started over without them, and there’s a searing pain of betrayal that tears through her. But Bjorn is insistent they help. And she knows she must as well. But when she tells her husband of Ragnar’s troubles, he is unmoved.  

It is not their war, he tells her. Hedeby has no interests with Kattegat or Gotaland.

Think of the opportunity, she urges him. Times are changing, and alliances need to be forged. But Sigvard believes she thinks only of Ragnar. And he tells her that her body is _his_ , and his alone. There is no Ragnar, and he won’t hear of it anymore. She asks again, and he slaps her, and tries to rape her, instead.  It earns Sigvard a knee to the groin, and he backs down. But not before cursing her name.

But four years in Hedeby have not been wasted. She and Bjorn have made some friends. They work quietly and quickly—it is risky what they are about to do. Within days they have gathered enough men. It is a lesson learned from her ex-husband, something they did years ago together, plotting to defy an earl to go west. Funny, how she is in this same place again. If they fail it is likely Sigvard will have her killed. If she is successful, she will be beaten and allowed to live, but if she plays this right, Hedeby will have a new earl.

While Sigvard lays drunk, passed out in their bed, she slips out and grabs her leathers and pulls on her pants, the soft cloth and armor sliding on like a second skin. Her sword and axe are rusty—but she will sharpen and clean them on the way. And as she casts a look at her son, standing ready and tall, she sees his smile of approval.

She is a shield-maiden once again.

They take off, mother and son, under the cover of night, and once they are past the compound gates, they meet up with their men and begin riding east: toward Kattegat, and toward the husband she left behind.

 The journey takes eight days, and she uses the time to gather her thoughts and shield her heart. It has been four years since she left. And now Lagertha must return.

**-xxx-**

This English soil is different, where they are. And for the first time, Ragnar Lothbrok is less interested in raiding, than in cultivating.

The ground in Wessex is lush and rich, the soil dark and as a farmer, he knows it is more valuable than any spoils he could take back to Kattegat. In their land, good soil is rare, and his people fight over what little is left. But this is an opportunity for his people. With a pang, he remembers how he and Lagertha would lay awake at night, dreaming of such a land. And he knows if she were here, she would approve. And so he meets with the King of Wessex and makes an offer—land, in exchange for no more raids.  But before he cement the deal, news arrives from Kattegat.  

Jarl Borg has invaded his city, and taken his land. His wife and his children have fled.

Panic and dread spread, momentarily paralyzing his body. He has only felt this once before. But now, at this news, there is the very real possibility Ragnar Lothbrok could lose another family, four years after he lost his first.

“Go” Athelstan urges him. “I will stay with King Horik.”

 England must wait. He must go home to rescue his children and reclaim his home.

The journey back is achingly long, and he does not sleep. He lies awake praying to the gods that his sons are alive. He cannot allow himself to think otherwise.

And when he finds his wife, and his children, he is grateful, and he falls to his knees and thanks the gods for sparing his family as he embraces them in his arms. He embraces his brother for protecting his family, and everything that has happened between them is forgotten. And he holds Aslaug close, treasuring her in the moment for keeping his children safe, while ignoring her protestations and releasing everything he has been holding in, inside her.   

Now he can focus again, and plan for revenge.  Rollo has sent out a call, and they must wait to see if it will be answered, and by whom.

**-xxx-**

_The gods watch, exchanging amused smiles among themselves. Thor laughs, the sound manifesting as thunder on Earth. Odin and Frigg give him dirty looks as they lean in intently to watch what will soon unfold. They hold hands._

He can barely believe it. He doesn’t dare trust his eyes. But it is real. All too real and he is doing everything he can to keep a straight face. His request for more men has been answered in the strangest and most miraculous of ways. But, remembering Athelstan’s story of the biblical Job, Ragnar will not question what the gods have done. Instead, he gives thanks. They have brought his family home.

He sees her golden hair billowing behind her as Lagertha rides up to their hideaway, 100 men behind her. And it is not lost on either of them that this will be her second time saving him. She is a vision to her ex-husband, like a Valkyrie coming to war.  This is how she looked the day he first laid eyes on her on the battlefield, her hair flying, and sword cutting through the air. And as he waits for her to approach, he recalls their wedding day, the armor replaced by a simple white shift, and garlands of flowers wrapped around her wrists and feet.  

The nostalgia is strong. They had been so happy then. 

“I have heard of your troubles. I brought these warriors to help you,” Lagertha says, stepping up to him confidently, her voice calm, her presence immediately steadying.

And then he sees his son. And his heart soars.

Bjorn is no longer a little boy, he has grown tall and broad, on the cusp on manhood. And it reminds Ragnar of what he has missed, and what he gave up.  

 “You are my son,” he says, his voice raw with emotion as he wraps his arms around his boy, holding him tight in his arms. Gods, how he has missed his son.

It is a moment that he will cherish. He has both wives, and all his children united finally. They are his world, his life, and he hasn’t realized how empty he has felt until this moment. It has been too long, far too long. There is joy here. Happiness. He feels renewed, and now he is ready for revenge.

Lagertha exhales deeply watching her men embrace, and she follows as Ragnar leads them into the farmhouse. She had braced herself for this moment, less her feelings betray her. But when she sees Aslaug it all falls away in the moment.

The princess is a far cry from her previous splendor. She is dirty, far more humbled, and tired. Her dress is torn, her hair in tangles and knots. She carries the harried look of a woman overwhelmed and it speaks to Lagertha’s heart. She too has been in that place, and so she goes to Aslaug in greeting, a sort of peace offering.

Now is not the time for bitter feuds.

She gets to hold Ragnar’s newborn son in her arms just a moment, touching the soft baby skin. And she feels so wistful…he is a beautiful boy, and his eyes are striking. Sigurd, Aslaug tells her, is his name. It is the name of Ragnar’s father, and Aslaug’s father. The other two boys stare at her curiously from behind their mother’s robes. It is bittersweet—seeing these children of Ragnar. Lagertha bends down, coming to face them at eye level and they come to her with innocent open arms.

But Ragnar interrupts the moment.

It is not the time for sentimentality. Jarl Borg will know soon that they are here if he doesn’t already. And if they are to retake Ragnar’s lands, they must move quickly. And so the interlude ends. 

In the farmhouse lit only by candles, Lagertha, Bjorn, Rollo and Ragnar come together to plot and plan.

Aslaug looks on with interest. Her life with Ragnar has been…challenging. He has been both hot and cold, distant and close—exchanging moments of great intimacy for days and weeks with no touch. She has sometimes wondered whether it was worth it, coming here to Kattegat. But the gods showed him to her in vision, and she has always trusted their prophecies. Her husband has been good to the children, and he has treated her well enough, and kept her in comfort. Though she has often wondered whether he truly loves her, she has never dared ask, choosing to take his affections toward her as confirmation instead.

She listens as they talk among themselves fluidly, thinking through varying scenarios, trading ideas back-and-forth, and she marvels at how it all flows together.

Ragnar, Lagertha, Bjorn and Rollo are a sight. They are a practice in contrasts, tall and short, light and dark. It works. _They_ are working.  It is not the first time Aslaug has wondered whether Ragnar would have been better off without her. She has never seen him look so happy, even in the midst of a desperate situation. And it readily apparent why: he has his whole family around him.

May the gods have mercy on Jarl Borg’s men, because Aslaug knows, the Lothbroks will have none.

**-xxx-**

It is done. They are home. And the people are celebrating in the town square.

Lagertha catches him in a stare and her lips curl just as little as she turns away to play with the little girls who have surrounded her. It seems her presence has been deeply missed in Kattegat, and it has not gone unnoticed by Ragnar that she has been encircled by men and women and children most of the day.  

He looks toward Aslaug, and sees his wife standing slightly apart from everyone else, playing with their young sons. She has never received such a reception. The difference is stark.

Lagertha belongs here in Kattegat with her people, and perhaps this time he can convince her to stay. He has not had a chance to speak with her privately yet, but from the moment she arrived he knew he did not want to let her go again. There must be a way. He looks up to see a dark, hooded figure and he knows where he must go.

To the seer.

He tells the old man of his desires—that he loves two women, that he wants his entire family united together; that he doesn’t want to make a choice between them. Ragnar wants it all.

But the old man laughs in his face.

“You are a fool, Ragnar Lothbrok, If you think it is _you_ r choice to make.”

This is not the answer he has expected. Why would the gods bring her here, if she is not meant to be with him? He shakes his head, unaccepting of the seer’s truth. The heart wants what it wants, and Ragnar wants his family back. He wants Bjorn back, and he wants Lagertha back. They are his world, his life. And in her presence Ragnar is reminded of just how powerful their love has been. She has been rattling around in his heart, his mind, in his blood and bones. He’s fought it, tried to temper it, and has even distracted himself from it. But it has always been there.

He loves Aslaug too. She has stayed by him, tolerated his grief, his infidelities and his little lies. And she has given him three sons –he loves her for that, for the children.

It is dark now, and the celebrations are coming to an end. They have retreated to the warmth of the inside, and he watches as Bjorn plays with his little brothers by the firelight. Ragnar wishes it could be like this always. And when Aslaug comes to sit next to him at the table, and tells him she is pregnant again, he already knows. She studies him carefully her watchful eyes examining his face and he wonders what it is that she is looking for.

“What are you going to do about Lagertha?” she asks.

“What do you mean what am I going to do? It’s her decision, I’ve never had a choice as to whether she comes or goes…but I will not tell her to go away if she doesn’t want to.”

It is an honest answer, and Aslaug deserves that much, at least.  

“Then if you like _I_ shall go away,” she says, and while it’s meant to be playful, there’s an undercurrent of doubt that’s carrying on her words.

He scoffs, not wanting to go down this road.  “Stop.”

“No doubt you prefer her because she’s a shield-maiden, a warrior—in that way she is more like you,” Aslaug continues, and Ragnar finds its becoming increasingly difficult to deflect. She is probing. 

“I don’t want either of you to leave, I want you both to stay.”

“I want to believe you my love,” Aslaug says, and while it’s gentle, it’s also full of implications.

“Then believe me,” he’s exasperated with this whole thing; quickly running out of words, he kisses her bringing the conversation to the end.   

But she is right, about so many things.

It has been storming all day, and the rain is not letting up. But Ragnar leaves the house anyway. He wants a resolution. And he is prepared to beg if he must. Four years is a long time, and he does not want to go another four years without Lagertha in his life.

-xxx-

He finds her at Siggy and Rollo’s house, the three of them laughing over a roaring fire. They stop talking when he walks through the door and Ragnar remembers a time when this scene would have looked much different. There would be more people—more friends—drinking ale and singing songs and telling jokes long into the night. But many of those faces are long dead now. He pushes the thought away.

“I need to speak to Lagertha,” he says.

Rollo and Siggy walk past him, exchanging looks, but making the allowance as he shakes the rain off his cloak and comes to stand next to his former wife by the fire to warm his hands.

The air around them is thick; Unspoken words hover like shadows. It’s all still there. And it’s not leaving.

He takes the time to study her out of the corner of his eyes, taking in the lines of her face, the fullness of her lips, remembering the way she kissed him, angrily, hungrily, passionately. There is an ache in his stomach.

 “I was wondering--”

“You were wondering what I was going to do, regarding your son,” her voice is low, and firm, finishing his sentence for him. It has always been that way, each knowing what the other is thinking and feeling.  

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits. “Bjorn is very happy here…”

“Then you should stay. You both should stay.”

“Your _wife_ would not be happy,” Lagertha says. It was meant as a gentle dig, but it comes out harder than she would have liked.

“I imagine not.” He says it with a smirk, casting a sidelong glance her way, but she turns away from him, lips pursed to stop herself from saying something else. It hadn’t worked four years ago, and it’s not going to work now.

 “I remember when you would have slapped me for something like that,” he says, moving closer to wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, his chest to her back. He moves a stray hair away from her neck, his hands caressing her skin.

She flinches and pulls away from him, and it gets a frown. She has never jumped at his touch before. And he does not like this. It is not like the Lagertha he knows. It is the first sign that something has happened to her, and he wants to know what it is.

“What do you want, Ragnar?” she asks, tiredly. This time, he doesn’t answer her with words. Instead, he moves quickly before she can become defensive, grabbing her by the waist and pushing her down on the bed. He pins her body with his own as he raises her dress, sliding his hands up her thigh. She pushes against him pounding his back and shoulders with her fists in protest. But he will not give. He holds her with one arm as he raises her dress and begins examining her bare legs, finding exactly what he thought he would on her thigh. The marks are faint but still visible, the type of bruising that does not come from love making.

“Why?”

She knows what he has seen, and she tries to cover self, but he is still pinning her down. Lagertha does not want to talk about this. Ragnar has no right to ask. But he already knows what her answer is.

They are too stubborn. Too proud. He pushes his knee between her legs and barely misses a direct hit to his groin.  He begins to undo his pants, while trying to block the blows. One fist glances his chin another, the side of his face. Her punches have always hurt, and he is fairly certain he will have a black eye in the morning. But it doesn’t matter. Not right now.

“I didn’t know you cared so much,” Lagertha snaps, twisting to get out of his grip. But he will not release her. He covers her mouth with his own, muffling the curses that pour from her lips. This is how they settle arguments. It has always been the foreplay to reconciliation.

He kisses her hard and long, until he takes her breath away and she can’t speak. It’s her will versus his, and right now, his is stronger.

And when he feels her relent, he moves to her neck, his tongue flicking on the spot right under her ear that he knows makes her wet. He can sense the change as her anger subsides and something more urgent begins to rise, his body follows suit, as he continues his journey with his mouth, grazing her shoulders with his lips. A moan escapes as she tries to arch away from him, but tonight, he will not let her go. They have things that need to be settled. And this is the only way they know how to do it.

The embers that have been smoldering since her arrival have ignited. And Ragnar is determined.

Her dress is up to her waist now, revealing the smooth flat expanse of creamy soft skin to his adoring gaze. He puts his head back down to kiss her belly, paying special attention to the faint lines that mark the place where she carried his children. She’s trying to push him away, but he grabs her wrists with one hand, and shakes his head while continuing his exploration. He circles her belly button with his tongue sticking it in, while slipping one finger between her legs to caress the wetness between them. She jumps as he teases the nub and brings his finger to his mouth to taste.

It is sweet and salty and made up of all the things that make him love her, and he wants more. He pushes his finger inside slowly, back and forth, breaking down her resistance until she lets him in. And when his mouth finally arrives he traces the outline of her nub with his tongue, and slips his middle finger inside her as well.

The first spasm from her body is intense, and she clinches around his fingers so tightly she almost pushes them out. He groans against her lower lips as she begins to move against his mouth, matching the pace he has sit with his fingers. Ragnar stops for a breath but Lagertha grabs his head and forces him back down, and he smiles against her heat as he sucks and licks and sticks and teases. While one of his hands is occupied, the other is wrapped around himself, slowly stroking in tandem to the rhythm she has set. She’s riding his face the same way she used to ride his dick, and as he prepares to change their position, he can sense the tightening in her stomach and it is like an earthquake when she comes, hard, and long. She cries out and it is like the songs of Valhalla in his ears. It’s deep and husky, and it’s loud, ringing through his ears and down his body and deep into his groin. He lifts his head from between her legs and comes back up her body prepared to enter her, but she puts a hand on his chest, pushing him away.

“I can’t.”

She’s still riding the waves he’s set off and not quite fully down from her high but her mind is screaming for her to put a stop to this situation before it spirals completely of control and they do or say something they can’t take back.

At first he doesn’t think she’s serious and he moves in to kiss her and to try again, but she turns her face away and pushes her arms against his chest more forcefully this time.

“No!”

He sits up, confused and disoriented, unsure of what has just happened.

“What do you mean ‘no’? No, you can’t? Or no, you won’t?” He asks watching her as she gets up from the bed slightly wobbling and tries to straighten her dress and her hair.  There are red marks already on her neck and shoulders from where his mouth has been.

“You have a wife, and children, and I have a duty to my husband, and to Hedeby.” She’s still shaky and Ragnar has gone from confused, to frustrated.

 “A duty to a man who has hit you? Why? Why not stay here, in Kattegat?  You don’t have to stay in my house, I will build you a new one,” he says coming to stand beside her.

He pulls her close to him wrapping her in his arms and holding her tight against his chest, his chin on her head.

“I am your husband, and you are my wife, and Bjorn is my son, and it is my job to keep you safe.” He looks down at her, as she looks into his face, searchingly.

“I divorced you,” she says quietly, “or have your forgotten that?”

“We both know that’s not true,” he says softly in her ear. “There is no record of it. No witnesses. Everything that is mine is yours. And what was yours, still is.”

She doesn’t respond to this, instead unwrapping herself from his arms and standing back from him.   

“I have to go back to Hedeby,” she tells him. “Sigvard has sent people here, and there will be a war if I don’t go back. Kattegat is in no position to defend itself.” Ragnar is silent. She is right. Most of his men are still in England with King Horik.

“Will you at least allow me to keep my son?” He asks, and the look on her face nearly kills him.

“It’s not my choice to make.” It comes out flat and hard, and the space between them widens and turns cold.

There’s thunder in the sky and the rain continues to fall, the sound echoing through the house.

Siggy and Rollo have remained outside in the rain. And they have heard it all.

“He’s still in love with her,” Siggy tells Rollo as they rest on a wall, watching the rain. He nods in agreement.

They sit quietly, listening as Ragnar and Lagertha agonize inside.  “It must be like torture for them,” Rollo tells Siggy, before leaning in to kiss her.

They watch as Ragnar leaves, and when they enter the house, it is hot, and smells like sex. Lagertha is seated where she was by the fire, looking pensive. She doesn’t notice that her dress is rumpled now, or that one sleeve has slipped off her shoulder, and there are visible red marks on her neck.

They say their goodnights and head to sleep. But they stop, look at the bed, then at each other and decide to lay their heads elsewhere. Lagertha can have it.

By the time Ragnar returns home, the fire is just smoldering embers. He walks quietly past the mountain of sleeping children, the young ones using his eldest son as a pillow.

Yet, as he heads toward the back room, he sees Aslaug sitting in a chair, looking at him.  He is not in the mood. Not tonight.  Ragnar walks past her to the water bowl to wash is face before climbing into bed. He’s mentally exhausted, and the last thing he wants is to face questions from Aslaug over where he has been or what he has been doing.

But she knows. She knew where he was going when he left, and she knows what he’s done when he comes back. The scent he thought he washed off gives him away. For the first time in their relationship, Aslaug feels anxious. She has tolerated his straying up to now because those other women were not serious threats and it had not really bothered her. But this does. As she climbs into bed next to her husband, sleep becomes elusive. She is trying to imagine a place with Lagertha in their bed, but it is failing her. And while she may have been open to it once—she knows she cannot possibly do it again. She understands completely why Lagertha left.

She is not the only one troubled in their sleep.

Ragnar is restless. Lagertha’s scent is still on his fingers, on his beard and when he licks his lips, he tastes her. He is hard, and he will not go down. Briefly he considers seeking relief with his wife, but it doesn’t appeal. So he gets up, and walks quietly out the door. It has stopped raining now, and the ground is wet. He is careful to walk on the hay. He slips around to the back of the house and frees himself from his pants, stroking himself slowly as he recalls with vivid clarity every moan out of her mouth, every arch, each thrust… and he imagines that she had let him in, and that he had felt her clench around him. Ragnar’s own hand mimics the motion, and as he does he begins to feel the ache that’s been in his stomach for days now grow to a slow burn until it begins to consume him. He cries out quietly—mouth open but making no sounds as his seed spills to the ground. He takes a moment to gather himself, and goes back inside, careful to not wake his children. But when he gets back to bed, he sees that Aslaug is not asleep. They look at each other, but don’t exchange words as Ragnar gets back under the furs, his back to his wife, and falls asleep.

It is a fitful night, and the next day, the great hall is full as he, Aslaug and their children hold court.

They are in the midst of settling a land dispute when news arrives from England. Their camp in England has been raided, King Horik’s men slaughtered, and his dear friend Athelstan, is missing. It comes as a punch to the gut. And he has not had opportunity to recover when Lagertha strides in to finish him off. She’s back in her armor and he’s disappointed to see it has covered up all traces of him.

He steps down from his chair to face her—not as an earl, but as an equal—and tries to steer whatever she may say to a more private place. But every eye in the room is on them, watching and waiting to see what is about to occur. Kattegat is still a small town, and most of the people here already know more about Ragnar and Lagertha’s past than either would like.

 “I have come to a decision,” she says loudly, speaking to the entire hall, and making eye contact with nearly everyone.

“I am aware my son Bjorn wants to stay with his father, and who can blame him? If you had a father like Ragnar Lothbrok, would you not want to stay? I happily give my permission for my beloved and only son to stay with his father and his half-brothers.”

There are small cheers around and for a moment he is relieved, until she looks directly at him.

“As for, me, I must go back to my husband,” the people gasp, and he hears a woman begin to cry. “I have a duty, I..am a responsible person. But I leave my son in your good hands.” The last few words are slightly shakey, but the next ones….

“Look after him Ragnar, he’s all I have left.” Shield-maidens don’t cry, but as he looks at his wife, he sees the tears that have gathered in her eyes.

He has again taken something from her, and as she walks out of his life for the second time he is again powerless to do anything about it. His only comfort is in knowing that he will see her again because she has left Bjorn behind. He just does not know when.

Aslaug can see the hurt in Ragnar’s eyes, even as he sits back in his chair, wearing a shield of impassivity. He gives off the appearance that he does not care, but she knows differently from the way he reaches out to lay a hand on her arm, and she holds it a moment, before following Lagertha out of the door.

“Thank you,” Aslaug tells her, “for everything that you have done for Kattegat, and our family.” The women embrace because they understand each other. The meaning is clear.

_Thank you for not taking Ragnar away._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Six years.**

Athelstan runs through the English forest, a hunted man. Tree limbs and thorny bushes gnash at his clothes and tear at his face. He thinks of what has brought him to this low point.

Six years ago he was a monk, living a life of devotion to God.

The barking of the dogs grows louder, and he hears his own breath as he keeps running.

**Five years.**

He believes the danger has passed. The dogs have quieted, and he thinks he is safe for now. Athelstan sits on the banks of a small stream, exhausted and bleeding.

Five years ago he went from a free man to a slave.

**Four years.**

He is poked and awakened and comes face-to-face with his captors. He gives himself up. Speaking English, telling them that he is one of them.

Four years ago, he was a slave to the Pagans, but he was entranced by their spirituality, and began questioning his own.

He remembers speaking to Ragnar about the faith of Job, while feeling like Judas.

**Three years.**

He is stripped of his clothes—a monk’s robes traded for the leathers and chainmail of a fighting man—and he is tied up.

The first nail in his hand makes him cry out to god. But he knows not which one.

**Two years.**

He went from an enslaved man to a free one, worshiping the gods of his captors…and his friends.

The second nail in his other hand brings images of God and Odin…and they are one in the same.

**One Year.**

The nail that pierces his feet is excruciating. It is the greatest pain he has ever known, and he sees now, the sacrifices of the King of kings. The cross that bears Athelstan’s body is hoisted from the ground. And there he stands. The blasphemer. The denier. The apostate.

One year ago he renounced his God for theirs.

And just when he believes it to be over, he is set free.

Athelstan does not understand why, or how. But as his broken body is lowered to the ground, he begins shaking uncontrollably and muttering, his teeth are chattering.

_“For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”_

The words come from his mouth, but they are not his own.  His vision is fading, and he cannot stop his body from trembling. There is a crown of gold above his face, and he reaches his bloody fingers out, imagining  he is touching the face of God.

**-xxx-**

The weeks have passed slowly and idle time has given way to an overactive mind.

Ragnar is coming to accept this is the way it will be--that he will cycle between near madness and blinding brilliance; That he will continue to start see friends as enemies and question everyone and everything around him. His thoughts are consumed with revenge. Revenge for Athelstan, revenge against Jarl Borg. It is this burning desire that now drives him forward—the one emotion he can always channel and control. The need for revenge trumps everything else, and he has been dwelling on it for weeks now.

The arrival of King Horik only brings it into greater focus.

His lands never would have been invaded had he not intervened in affairs that did not involve him directly. Jarl Borg was not his fight, but Borg had made what was business into something personal.  And what does it say about a king who does not have the power to exercise it over an earl? Ragnar sees it all clearly now. And he is a patient man.

There is unfinished business in England. What remain of his forces are clamoring for vengeance, and he will need more warriors if he is to give his people what they want…and to get what he wants. That settlement.

Horik has suggested reaching out to Jarl Borg, and while Ragnar resists this suggestion, a plan slowly begins to form in his mind. And so he agrees, because Horik is king. A king who has made many bad choices. Ragnar will bide his time, even as it grates on him that Horik has no _vision,_ no dreams about the future.

The future is all that consumes Ragnar’s thoughts.

He dreams of a united kingdom, where there is no war, and where his people can live peacefully among each other. It feels as if the children are born just to die on the battlefield, fighting the wars of old and imagination-less men. These are not honorable deaths—they have no meaning, and they have no end. Even now they are running out of men to fight, and the women cry for sons barely old enough to make their own.

All that are left of his friends are Floki and Torstein. There used to be so many more.

Jarl Borg will never set foot on Saxon shores. He will die in Kattegat.  

A new ally must be found, and so he sends the word out to see who will answer.

.

.

When Lagertha hears Ragnar is searching for an ally, she hesitates. She is a new earl, and unsure of whether her people will follow her into battle. Hedeby is an important city, and its shipping routes must be protected. It is in the interest of Hedeby to ally itself with Kattegat—for the mutual protection of their territories. Thankfully, the ruling council sees this as well, and grants its approval. Here, she is still an outsider, and while they have given her the power, she knows it can still be taken away. She must be careful about whom she chooses to align herself with. She is building a legacy for Bjorn to inherit—not just of his father, but of his mother as well. This is too important.

It is Torstein whom she first sees upon her arrival to Kattegat, and when he sees her approach, his eyes light up and he jumps off his horse and pulls her off of hers, sweeping  her into a great bear hug and lifting her off the ground. She gasps for air, but it is good. She is happy to see her friend again. Torstein has always been loyal to their family, and he has stood by Ragnar’s side all these long years.

“So,” he says, appraising her. “You’re an earl now.” Lagertha smiles. She is dressed in blue, soft furs adorn her neck, and her hair is braided around her head as if a crown. She wears the gold chains of earldom on her cloak, and they drape across her chest as if they were a necklace. Underneath is a corset of armor, made especially for her.

“You are a magical sight. Still as beautiful as they day you were married,” Torstein tells her approvingly. She blushes.

“Always with the flattery, you,” she says giving him a light squeeze on the arm.

Torstein is overjoyed. He has witnessed the change in Ragnar first hand since Lagertha left. He can see that power is straining his friend, slowly corrupting him. He has grown bitter and blood thirsty, more vengeful and selfish. Ragnar is not the man he once was. But Torstein does not tell Lagertha this. He senses she may already know.

 “Ragnar will shit when he sees you. You know this, right?”

She laughs, but he turns more serious this time. “He still loves you.”

Lagertha freezes and it dawns on Torstein for the first time: that Ragnar is not the only one still in love.

“I will go get him,” he says jumping back on his horse. “And I will tell him _Earl Ingstad_ has arrived.”

“I will be waiting!” She calls after him as he rides off to deliver the news.

 She gets back on her horse, and gathers her men. There are only three of them. It would be no use taking more in case he turns them down. As they prepare for Ragnar’s arrival, she takes the time to gather her nerves. Her friend’s words have made her stomach flutter.

 _He still loves you._ Torstein was there at their wedding, and he was present when she left.

There are hoof beats in the distance, and she knows they are coming. She moves her horse behind the trees, and one of her men steps out to stand in her place.

She watches under the cover of leaves as Ragnar approaches on horseback and she listens as he scans her man, calling out uncertainly, “Earl Ingstad?” She exhales, braces herself, and comes out from behind the trees, a steely gaze and a slight smirk playing at her lips as the myriad of emotions flash across Ragnar’s face in quick succession: shock, amazement, humor, and something else… _hunger_.  The butterflies flutter faster.

It must be yet another joke from the gods, Ragnar thinks as he sees his wife emerge, perched on her horse like a queen. He looks up at the sky and gives himself a long stretch to buy time in playing out his next move. This is not what he had anticipated. And yet, it is happening. And he could not have picked a more perfect ally.

 _Now this,_ he thinks, must _certainly be_ _fate_.

He looks at her again, and he can’t help smirking, channeling to her all of the very dirty thoughts that are dancing around in his head. He can tell by the way she arches an eyebrow at him that she knows exactly what is on his mind. She has not forgotten how to read him.

They guide their horses in slow circles around each other.

 “So, you are truly an Earl.” It is more a statement, than a question.

“Yes, we are equal now. I’m _sure_ this is difficult for you.” She meets his gaze with her own, and they are like two wild animals sizing each other up,  trying to decide if the other is prey or predator.

“It is not difficult at all.”

The looks he is giving her make her feel as if he’s undressing her with his eyes; the tension that crackles around them is unmistakably sexual. Her men are exchanging uncomfortable glances, their eyes shifting between their Earl and Earl Ragnar. They know something is happening, but don’t know what.

Ragnar’s men exchange amused looks. Torstein especially. He will place a bet with Floki and Rollo on which one—Ragnar or Lagertha—will cave first. After all, they’re bound to meet up at one of their homes.

Remembering what Rollo told him about their last encounter, Torstein makes a mental note to prepare some extra furs, in case the ones on his bed get ruined.

 “So you will accept me as an ally?” Lagertha asks. They are still circling, each refusing to bend.

“It depends,” he says. “I’ve been betrayed by an earl before. So if you are truly an earl, my answer is no. But...” she catches the gleam in his eye, “if you are still the Lagertha I know… my answer is yes.”

It is an answer and a dare. She smiles but doesn’t respond as they slowly walk their horses back to Kattegat. There will be a very long conversation later on.

**-xxx-**

Another day finds Ragnar sitting outside of his house, eating and watching his wife hold a training session with his warriors in the square. One by one, they go down as she kicks, punches and flips them on their backs. This has been going on for a few hours, and he’s transfixed. Even after all this time, it amazes him that he was the one Lagertha chose to marry, when there was a line of men hoping to gain her hand. 

Back then, she was the most famous shield-maiden in their land, and _he_ was an unknown farmer’s son.  

He recalls his first trip to Uppsala, where he prayed to Odin about the kind of woman he wanted to marry.

Lagertha had saved his life on the battlefield the very next year.

Aslaug approaches the stairs and he averts his eyes, but it is too late. She has caught him looking and comes to sit beside him. He assists her-- their fourth child has weakened her, making such movements difficult.

The two of them sit silently as Lagertha blazes through men and women as if she were a one-woman army and Aslaug cannot help but to admire, knowing she will never possess that kind of strength-- or that kind of power. Lagertha’s will and independence makes Aslaug wistful. She was raised in a castle, Lagertha on a farm. And yet it is the farmer’s daughter who has the might to command an army, not the princess from noble blood. 

She looks at Ragnar, who is focused intently on the food in front of him, and she rubs her growing belly, thoughtfully.

 “I like her,” she says. “She is formidable.”

Ragnar rolls his eyes and drops to his back, sighing, wondering how many times he will end up in this same position. Aslaug studies the both of them, and suddenly she has a vision:

_Odin and Frigg sit side by side on their golden thrones, joining hands and creating a single white light, which they split in two._

She blinks rapidly several times, looking again at her husband and his ex-wife. It is time to go inside where she can think about what she has seen, and to try and process what the gods are trying to say.

**-xxx-**

It is time.

Ragnar thinks of only the blood eagle as he begins to cut the skin from Jarl Borg’s back. He wants to go slowly, taking his time, letting the blood run through his fingers and his hands. It begins to pool on the platform, glowing as if imbued by a spiritual presence.

It is magical, this thing that he is doing, taking the upmost care as he carves each rib from Borg’s spine, one by one, the blood spattering across his face, and onto his robes. He can see the man’s heart beating quickly, and he can see the lungs heaving, but Borg remains silent—suffering his fate with dignity. And Ragnar admires him for it.

Borg’s wife Torvi has passed out, and Siggy’s face is buried in Rollo’s shoulder. Aslaug is covering her mouth, but Lagertha is looking right at him, her face set. She nods in silent approval as he reaches into Borg’s back and removes the lungs, sitting them on the Jarl’s shoulders.

It is done.

And it is monstrously beautiful.

Ragnar steps back to take in his work, basking in the glory of the carnage before slowly walking away.

The eagle’s cry echoes in the air. And no one else has moved, except for one. As Ragnar leaves, so does Lagertha.

As if coming out of a collective trance, the crowd slowly begins to move, looking around at each other and to the platform, where only the corpse of Jarl Borg remains. They quietly make their individual ways home.

It is all the time Ragnar needs to take off his bloody robe and wash his face by the river, rinsing the blood from his hands and feet. He steps into the water and submerges himself to cleanse his body and his mind. He has prepared for this all day. A clean black tunic rests beside his bloody one and he puts it on, before beginning to walk the path that leads toward the place where he will meet his wife.

They had agreed to this when she arrived, and he has only been able to see her in passing since then.

Lagertha is unprepared for what she sees when she arrives at the place Ragnar has designated.

On the beach is a house—their house—now rebuilt. It is exactly like the home he built for her when they were first married, the same home where they were happy and made love and life and laughter. The house is like a monument to the past—what feels like something out of another lifetime, but here, it stands. It is like walking back into the past, into memories so beautiful they’re almost too painful to bear.

Inside against the left wall are three beds, each with an item on them. The charred remains of Athelstan’s old Bible, Gyda’s tiny doll that Ragnar made for her when she was two; and Bjorn’s little shield and stick-sword. There is a large bed in the middle of the room and the hearth is glowing with a fire. Ragnar’s old farming tools hanging on the walls.

These are all the things that remain of their old life, and a single tear falls down Lagertha’s cheek, as she remembers the day they fled for their lives—the day Ragnar nearly died trying to save them. Another tear escapes and slips down the opposite cheek as she thinks she would have rather lost Ragnar that way—in battle-- than in the manner in which she did.

The door opens and she turns around to see her ex-husband standing there. He has cleaned the blood from himself, and is dressed in a long, black tunic. His feet are bare, and he is staring at her with an intensity that makes her flush.

A third tear comes as he slowly walks toward her, and backs them up to lay her down on the bed before coming to lay on top of her. She can feel his heart racing through his robe, and she gathers the fabric in her hands pulling it up and over head to take it off so she can lay her hands on his chest and feel his heartbeat.

He is hard lines and graceful angles, solid and sure.

_Gods, how she loves this man…_

The sensation of his lips on hers makes her skin tingle—it is gentle, and slow. She kisses him back softly as he begins to undress her, arching her hips and back as the fabric climbs up her skin and finally over her head.

Ragnar looks down her body, taking in the soft lines and smooth curves. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, and she looks so vulnerable and open in this moment. It is as if they are about to make love for the first time. And it comes to him, a vision so strong it makes his heart clench in his chest, remembering that day. The sudden surge of emotion almost overwhelms him as he looks into her eyes and kisses her lips. 

_Praise Odin he loves this woman..._

They move in sync, their bodies slipping into familiar positions, her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck…and when he enters her it is so tight they cry out together, and he has to stop in order to keep himself from coming too soon.

When he draws out of her and goes back in she bites her bottom lip, struggling to find a center, an anchor to keep her from drowning. He has just started, but she can already feel her orgasm beginning to build. Her feet are tingling, her legs are shaking and there’s so much heat and throbbing between her legs that the end is imminent. But what’s threatening to shatter her into pieces is the ache in her chest which grows and grows the deeper he probes her.

They are touching each other’s hearts, minds and souls and it is as spiritual as it is physical, and it aches for him too...he feels as if he may bust into flame at any moment and he is fighting with everything he has to maintain control, but it is slipping… and he knows the end is near…

The tears she has tried to stop are flowing now and she can’t control it, and when she looks into his face she sees he’s crying too, and it breaks her.

The damn bursts, and a choked sob escapes her lips, and another, and another. She is quaking, her orgasm so intense she doesn’t realize that she has him stuck inside her, and he becomes helpless as her sex pulses against his own to the to the point that he finally loses it, and cums so hard he cries out, burying his head in her shoulder as his body convulses around hers.

 It is powerful, and intimate, and they stay like that clinging together for fear of letting go. Even in their marriage they had never felt so naked, so raw. They are stripped bare for each other only.

After a long while, his breathing returns to normal and hers too. Their heartbeats fall into sync. Ragnar turns his face to let his forehead come to rest on hers, and their noses touch. Lips meet in a soft kiss.

 “I love you.”

She moves a bit, and he looks into her eyes.  

“Tell me again,” she says softly.

 “ _My_ wife…I.Love.You.”

He has not forgotten about that. And she knows it. He moves off of her and she comes to rest under his shoulder, her body seeking to reclaim the warmth from his.

“Ragnar…”

He looks at her from the corners of his eyes then back to the ceiling.

“You are still my wife,” he looks back up at the ceiling. “Even if you don’t live in my home.”

 They slip into silence, listening to the sound of each other breathing.

“How did you become Earl?”

 “When I went back to Hedeby Earl Sigvard had me beaten. He tried to strip me in front of court. And I stabbed him in the eye. His own cousin finished off. One of the men who came with me here told the court that I had denounced you. There was no justification for what Sigvard did, and it earned me more friends, and earned him more enemies.”

Ragnar is quiet, trying to process his wife’s words. When he thinks of another man laying hands on her…had he known how she’d suffered he would have torn Sigvard apart—starting with each toe, each finger, every tooth, taking his time in order to exact the most pain as possible, before ripping the limbs from his body. She had endured this abuse for four years.

“Why did you agree to come assist me?” He asks swallowing the violent image in his mind.

“For our son.”

He doesn’t understand. “Did he ask you too?”

“Yes. But not only that.”

 “What do you mean?”

She lifts herself slightly to rest her head on her arm, looking down on her husband.

“I did it to secure a future for Bjorn. Outside of Kattegat, or with it. Because one day we will die. And I want him to be secure. I want him to lead our people.”

He slips his arm down and around her waist, rolling her over and on top of him. Her hair falls across his chest and he plays with it in his fingers. 

 Lagertha’s reasoning makes sense, and with a pang he realizes how correct Aslaug was in this. He and his wife are exactly alike, and he will never stop calling Lagertha that because it’s what she is to him.

“Be with me.”

She shifts to sit up, looking down on him.

“What if I remarry?” She asks. He feels a stabbing pain in his chest.  

“Then I will have to kill him.”

“What if I find someone I like?”

“He may not die, but he will be physically harmed.”

She laughs leaning down to kiss him before asking, more serious this time, “What if I have another child?” Ragnar exhales gradually, wanting to know but almost afraid at the same time.

This is their crutch. The thing that tore them apart.    

 “Can you…have another child?” he asks, his voice cracks. He imagines her pregnant again carrying his seed, and he remembers how she looked with Bjorn and Gyda, and their last son, who didn’t make it. Lagertha glows when she is with child, and it is breathtaking to see.

“I don’t know.” Her lip is quivering, and he kisses her gently. But the tears are already starting to flow, and she can’t stop them. He takes deep breaths, fighting his own feelings on the issue. All he can do is hold her as she cries softly, her face buried in his shoulder.

He remembers his prayer at Uppsala, asking Odin who would bear his children after her last miscarriage. And he feels the burning shame and guilt for his betrayal, and the burden of her sadness. All she ever did was love him, and all he did was find a new womb to fill. But what is done is done, and he can’t take it back. 

“Shh…” he rocks her slowly, his hands stroking her hair. Ragnar has no words for comfort. No answers to give her closure.

Her breathing is ragged as she slowly regains her composure. When she finally looks at him, her eyes are red and puffy, but her voice is slow and steady.

“I want to fight with you. As you friend, and your ally, as the mother of your eldest son. But I cannot fight with you as your wife,” she says. And he knows why.

Aslaug. She is his legal wife, and neither she nor his young sons can defend themselves.

“You cannot leave them, you have to keep them safe,” she says, her fingers tugging on his beard to pull his mouth to hers.

They make love again, and fall asleep naked and entwined. Both know this is the best they will get, and they also know they may get no more. It is bittersweet: a hello, and a goodbye.

.

_Frigg reaches over and holds Odin’s hand. He smiles at his wife and stands up moving toward her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close for a kiss. Even the gods make love._

.

“I will return in three weeks’ time with my warriors to depart for Wessex,” she tells him the next morning as he laces up her dress. They kiss at the door and he turns to close and lock it, sealing up their secrets. The only direction now is forward.

When they arrive back to the great hall around mid-morning, Lagertha’s envoy is already waiting. Ragnar helps her up onto her horse, and she leans down to finger his beard.  

“I will be back,” she says before hitching the reins, and departing, leaving him behind.

 Three weeks. Now that he knows with surety she will return, the time doesn’t seem as long. 

He enters the great hall to find Bjorn and his sons wrestling in a corner. Aslaug steps out from the back rooms. She takes one look at him and comes over, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. But her eyes are sad, and he just cannot bring himself to say that he is sorry.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Horik is not to be trusted, but Ragnar must tolerate him, as a wise man suffers a fool.

The slaughter of his men in Wessex was Horik’s fault, jeopardizing everything Ragnar has been working to build. Peace for his people, opportunity. Prosperity.

The entrance of King Horik in his life marked the beginning of the end for him, and his family. Gotaland. Jarl Borg, a failed peace treaty, and the loss of another friend—Athelstan. Horik continues to take from Ragnar, and what has he gained in return? What kind of King cannot settle his own land dispute? What kind of King has to rely on his earl to lead his people? Jarl Borg had tried to tell him this. But Horik was his king, and Ragnar felt that he had to try to obey. But it is abundantly clear now that Horik is no longer fit to lead.  

Athelstan’s fate is weighing heavily on his mind. And so he goes to see the seer. And when the old man says his friend still lives, Ragnar’s suspicions on Horik deepen. His instincts have never been wrong, and right now they are screaming.

This journey to Wessex will be different. And Ragnar knows to prepare for the worst.

The day is windy, favorable for sailing, and as he makes his way to the docks, the horn sounds. His wife and his son walk with him. And Horik takes to his own ship. The seas are smooth as their fleet begins the voyage to England and Ragnar, his son and Lagertha are all on the same boat--where he wants them to be.

They give him strength.

 And now that they are away from the king. He can share with them what the seer has told him. He tells them that Athelstan is alive, and he tells them that Horik claims Athelstan has betrayed them. It is a quiet conversation—just talk to anyone listening. But Bjorn and Lagertha understand perfectly. Three pair of identical eyes drift toward Horik’s boat.

Patience runs in their family.

As soon as they land and make camp, Ragnar sends Torstein with a message to King Ecbert. And as he has assumed, King Horik is not pleased.

“You are not my equal!” He yells at Ragnar. “ _I_ am king!”

Now, finally, the truth is revealed.

Ragnar is unmoved. He is focused on a singular purpose, and sure enough, when Prince Aethelwulf comes to camp he is carrying Athelstan’s bracelet—the one Ragnar gave him to signify his freedom--as a sign of good faith. He holds it in his hands, making sure his wife and son see it. Horik sees the bracelet too, and he knows that Ragnar knows the truth.

But Horik is still king.

And while the Lothbroks may have come to make peace and play in the dirt, _he_ has come to make war—to seek revenge for his slain warriors. And he has countered Ragnar’s peace offering with a surprise of his own. There will be no peace.

Aethelwulf finds himself ambushed, most of his envoy killed. And when word reaches King Ecbert, he is displeased. He had hoped to forge an agreement with these Northmen, especially with Ragnar. Athelstan has told him such stories! But it appears there will be no such deal. And tomorrow, they will fight. The Northmen must die.

-xxx-

The nights are cold here in England, and Ragnar sits in his tent wrapped in a blanket staring thoughtfully into the fire. Bjorn comes to sit next to him, and Ragnar smiles as his son tells him that he is thinking about death.

“You will not die tomorrow,” he tells Bjorn. And he knows this because the seer has already told him what lies in store for his son. Bjorn is visibly relieved, and he leaves to go to his girlfriend, Porunn. Ragnar watches him leave, remembering himself at that age, slipping away to find comfort in the arms of his wife before battle. That used to be their way—to make love to one another before they made war. The wave of nostalgia that swells is unexpected, and he’s still feeling it when Lagertha slips into his tent shortly afterward, a cup of ale in her hands.

“I am worried about my son…” she says, “and about you.”

He tells her that Bjorn will not die. But the next part slips out before he even has a chance to process it.

“Do you want to have sex?”

He wags his eyebrows at her to cover for the lapse, earning a slow smile and a quiet laugh in return. The question lingers between them in the air.

“Goodnight, Ragnar.”

He watches her retreat, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Tomorrow they will fight. And some will die. And it will be the fault of a rash and short-sighted king.

-xxx-

It is a losing battle for the Northmen. They have been outnumbered and out-strategized. Horik’s blind rage has led them into destruction, and there have been heavy losses for their side. Ragnar’s anger at Horik only increases as he surveys his damaged warriors.  His brother, Rollo, has been captured and wounded. Lagertha and Bjorn and the rest of them are covered in blood. His family has been put in danger. And that by far is the worst offense. It is a consequence of yet another of Horik’s bad decisions that they are in this dark place. Ragnar stalks the camp, his fury contained. Only his close friends know what he is thinking…and feeling.

In victory, King Ecbert sees opportunity. And so, he sends Athelstan. It is insurance, and if the monk’s words are true, the king knows he will not be harmed. Ecbert will give Ragnar Lothbrok another opportunity if it means that he will be able to further his own plans for England. But to do that, he needs expendable soldiers.

Athelstan is conflicted as he rides to the camp, unsure of who or what he may see. The first face to greet him is Bjorn. His heart is full as he see the boy he once know stand as a man before him.

“Bjorn, do you remember me?”

Bjorn walks toward him.

“Yes. He says. When I was a boy I hated you. And then I loved you.” And it is then Athelstan knows that he is among friends.

And when Lagertha emerges from behind her son, it brings tears to his eyes. She is still as lovely as he remembered her to be, and she emanates power. He can tell much is different now. And it is to her that he brings Ecbert’s offer.

“We will come—Ragnar, and I and our son, will come.”

An agreement is made. They will exchange hostages—King Aella will stay with the Northmen, and Ragnar, Lagertha, King Horik and Bjorn will meet with Ecbert.

Ragnar comes to him next, and he longs to embrace his friend. “I will walk with you at least part of the way,” Ragnar says following by his side, limping.  And when they are alone, Ragnar gives him back his bracelet and looks at him intently.

“You are family,” he tells Athelstan, and slowly begins to away.

Family. It has been so long that Athelstan cannot believe he has almost forgotten about his family.

-xxx-

They reach an agreement with Ecbert soon after. Five thousand pounds of gold and silver, and the return of Ragnar’s brother, in exchange for land, and men to act as mercenaries. It is agreed.

The Lothbroks have scored a key victory in this quiet war. And they have gained even more—the return of their friend—Athelstan.

The monk does not know if it is by fate, or by faith, or by choice. But he is being called back to Kattegat. And he has many, many questions for Ragnar when they arrive. But there is something going on.

He looks at Ragnar, Bjorn and Lagertha and it is impossible to mistake them for anything but what they are: a family. They share identical expressions, and a similar way of speaking without words.  He follows the silent conversation they are having between themselves, and he follows their eyes to where they keep going: King Horik. All three catch him looking. But he knows their language. Athelstan swallows and nods in understanding.

.

.

They have planned this for a very, very long time. And everything is beginning to fall into place. The boats have pulled up to the docks, and Ragnar allows Bjorn to go his own way, but as they walk into town he pulls Lagertha into a side street.

 “I want you to stay with me, in the house, in my bed.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“You are still a Lothbrok. And if Horik is to act, he will want to kill all of us, including you, and I will not allow that to happen.”

“What about Bjorn?”

“Bjorn is fine. Floki is watching over him. It is time.”

He’s dead serious and he will not take no for an answer. He will chain her to his house if he must.  Seeing the intensity in his face, Lagertha agrees and goes to her home to gather a few things.

When Ragnar enters the great hall Aslaug is there. They share an embrace but its quick, and there’s an urgency about him that worries her as he guides them to the back room.

He sits her down and explains what happened in England. But his next words make her feel as if he’s slapped her.

“I want Lagertha to share our bed.”

She pulls back from his touch and looks at him.

He is not _asking_ for permission, he is _telling_ her that this is the way it will be. Aslaug knows what Ragnar desires, he has slipped before—whispering his ex-wife’s name while inside of her…and she also believes that Ragnar is trying to justify what he wants to do by using Horik’s threat as an excuse.

For the first time, Aslaug finds herself facing the same decision that Lagertha once did. And she knows exactly how the other woman felt when she showed up pregnant at their door. Aslaug wants to tell him no. To leave, but where will she go? Ragnar will not stand for losing his sons a second time and she has has no skills of her own. She is a princess with no land and no claim which is why she came to Kattegat in the first place. In Ragnar she had seen opportunity.  

She feels trapped.

There really is no choice. And so she consents, because, what other option is there? Aslaug does not want to lose her husband, and if it will please him, make him happy and make him stay, then Lagertha can share their bed—the bed that was hers to begin with.

.

.

The first night is the strangest, as Lagertha takes to the place she used to occupy in the bed, and stays there. Ragnar sleeps in the middle and Aslaug at the other end.

The journey has been long and so has the day and she is physically and mentally exhausted. Sleep comes easily.

But in the morning she awakens to an arm around her and a firm body against her back. She moves against him in an attempt to shift him off of her, but his arm tightens, and he whispers.

“I am not asleep.”

She tenses and stills, deciding to go back to sleep. And when she wakes again, Ragnar and Aslaug are both gone..

The second night is unseasonably warm, and both she and Aslaug climb into bed in their nightgowns. This time, Aslaug is in the middle, and Ragnar on the far side. She again turns away from them, and falls asleep, but sometime in the night, the positions have changed, and she’s awakened by the feel of his calloused hands between her legs, and his erection pressing against her butt. Her gown has been lifted to her waist, and his fingers move down until they reach between her folds. She bites her bottom lip to keep from making any sound while she tries to move his hands away.

“Aslaug says it’s okay,” he whispers to her. And that very well may be, but she doesn’t know if _she’s_ okay with it.

“No.”

He pulls his hand away, but keeps it around her, and she allows him to stay there.

The next night there is no moon and the winds are picking up. Lagertha needs a moment to just breathe, and so she leaves the great hall and heads toward the beach. As she stands there, watching the ocean begin to churn, lightening streaks across the sky, followed by thunder.  Aslaug comes to stand beside her.

“The gods are coming,” Aslaug says glancing at her.

“I know.”

They stand side-by-side, watching, and waiting.

“He loves you,” Aslaug says.  “And if it will make him happy, then you have my permission as well.” Lagertha turns to look at her.

“Would you have married a farmer?” The question is heavy with layers of implications and meanings.

Aslaug shrugs, wrapping her arms around herself as protection from the building winds.  “If it is the will of the gods, who are we to disobey?”

They both know she doesn’t believe that.

Lagertha is last to come to bed. Ragnar and Aslaug are already asleep and she takes off her cloak and dress and climbs in next to them, weighing what her decision will be.  And when she wakes up in the morning, for the third time in three nights, Ragnar is beside her.

-xxx-

The boats come ashore, bringing King Horik’s family, and with their arrival comes a feast, and a toast to an alliance. The great hall is alive with music and everyone is drunk off ale and meade. Some are drunker than others. And a few are just acting.

Aslaug is dancing in the corner, throwing wine on a reveler, and Ragnar is slumping in his chair. Lagertha is making the rounds, her eyes sharp. Always sharp. She does not miss anything. But she has made a decision. It is a selfish one, but she will own it, and everything that comes with it.  

She will enjoy this night, because tomorrow, all things will change. And if it is to be as the gods have ordained, this will be the last night she and Ragnar are equals. And if they are to proceed, they must meet on equal ground.

Lagertha smiles as she comes across him, slumping in a chair in the corner. He quickly gets to his feet, albeit a bit clumsily and wraps an arm around her pulling her close, and planting a sloppy kiss on her lips. She kisses him back firmly with her unspoken intent and takes a step back. He looks at her and she knows he’s completely sober. Her fingers skim down the front of his shirt.

This is happening now.

He grabs her hand and takes them to the back rooms. Their actions are sloppy and hurried and both are naked when Aslaug stumbles in.

 She blinks, seeing but not, and Ragnar brings her to bed.

The three of them are all limbs and touch as they lose themselves in the moment. Lagertha fingers herself as she watches as Ragnar takes Aslaug from behind. It’s hot and sexy, but even as Ragnar pushes the moans from Aslaug’s lips, she can tell that one is more vested than the other. He’s so obviously holding back, and it only makes her want him more.

 She cannot wait until it’s her turn. And it comes sooner than she expects. As Aslaug rolls away, she slips around the bed and pushes Ragnar down, climbing aboard. It has always been fun when they’re together, but it’s like a drug when there’s an audience.

They fuck with abandon—and neither can tell if they’re fighting or making love or something in-between. Lagertha is ruthless, working out all her frustration on his dick. He groans as she presses into him, and this is soo much better because now she is in full control of his pleasure and her own. They romp, and they ride as she pulls his hair and rakes her fingernails down his chest. He grabs her ass so hard she knows they’ll be prints in the morning.  

Her orgasm is strong and it rocks them both and he calls her name when he cums. But it’s only the beginning. And she gets to claim Round One.  

There are several more to go. And soon, Aslaug, still next to them, is forgotten. It’s a big bed. And it’s Ragnar’s turn now.

He flips his wife onto her back and slips down between her legs tasting their sex and making her tremble as she tugs at his hair. He keeps her thighs in his grip, refusing to release her even as she begs for him, and screams his name. When she comes again, it’s in his mouth, and it’s a head rush, a power trip and he basks in the glow of her  before meeting her lips again.

There is no gentleness here. He’s been restraining himself for way too long with too many other women and when he enters her again, he doesn’t hold back, going in as far as he can to make her scream loudly as the bed begins to shake with the force of his thrusts. Soon, she's coming for him again and when she orgasms he feels it in his own body, causing a long low growl to escape his throat as he empties himself inside her.

He gets Round Two.

But Round Three brings about compromise, if not resolution. Ragnar brings her arms above her head, pinning them there as he enters her again. He’s still hard and it’s not going down but he’s beginning to tire.  They stay still for a moment, catching their breaths and looking at each other, granting him a moment of recovery. And when he begins again it’s achingly slow and it is like they blend together, two souls into one.

This time, they don’t close their eyes, and they arrive at the end at the same time.

It’s a draw.

This started with three…and it’s ending with two.

 One lays alone.

Yes, she had given her husband permission, despite her private reservations. And yes, it is a competition, one Aslaug was sure she was winning as Ragnar tapped inside her, but now…

Now all she can do is watch as her husband and his ex-wife, fight, fuck and then make love. He does things to Lagertha he’s _never_ done with her.  Ragnar has NEVER called let alone spoken Aslaug’s name during sex. And it is abundantly clear who he prefers. If she had doubts before, she has the truth now. And the truth hurts.

This cannot possibly be what the gods had in store, and why did she agree to it?  Aslaug is not Lagertha. She is high-born, and Lagertha a common farmer’s daughter, but in matters of war, and peace, and love, it is clear who is better. Aslaug has counted on her status as her security, but now she sees her position is tenuous at best.

But there is still something Lagertha will never have, and for that reason alone, Aslaug knows no matter how badly he wants to, Ragnar will _never_ leave.

She has his children.

And Lagertha will NEVER get her husband back. Aslaug will see to it.

Finally, mercifully, they exhaust themselves, and Lagertha slides around her to the far edge of the bed. Aslaug moves over to take the middle spot, leaving Ragnar on the end.

Two are asleep. One is still awake.

Ragnar is spent and satisfied, grinning like Loki in the dark. It is everything he’s been wanting and waiting for, and he still can’t believe he finally got both women to agree but, praise Odin! He is glad they did.

He is the last to fall asleep, and the first to wake up. When he rolls over, he sees Aslaug, so he climbs out of bed and walks over to the other side to admire his sleeping wife. He lowers his body to hers, letting his mouth graze across her cheek, her chin—each place that’s uncovered.

“mmmm….”

Lagertha rolls over and the covers fall away, revealing the tattoo on her thigh. He loves that tattoo—he made it himself. His wife wears his brand on her body, and she can _never_ take it off. Ragnar traces the design on her thigh with his mouth and spreads her legs, taking a long slow lick strait up her center.

Lagertha’s eyes shoot open and down to meet his.

She is very much awake now.

He raises his head to look at her, putting his finger on his lips, his eyes darting to the right and back. Lagertha looks at Aslaug still asleep.

 A smile spreads across his face as he lowers his face back down. This is by far his favorite thing to do to her. She has never been able to stand it for long and as her fingers form fists in his hair he is already begin to feel the beginnings of what he knows will be a hard climax for them both.

She rolls over on his stomach and he comes to lay on her back, interlacing their fingers together as she spreads her legs and arches her back to let him in.  He silences a groan by biting her on the back of the neck as he pushes deep inside. And when she begins to thrust downward, clenching her thighs together tightening around his dick and a growl does escape his lips as he feels the intensity of what she’s doing to him in his toes.

He pulls out immediately and rolls his wife over onto her back. Before going back in. A hard kisses silences them both as he begins to take her, drawing out each thrust so she can feel every part of him. She pushes in too deep and she has to grab a pillow to muffle her cry. It hurts, but he knows she doesn’t want to stop, and she will give as good as he can. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, her legs around his waist as they start to test each other. It’s rough and slow, deliberately inflicting pain to get pleasure…they bite, and they nudge, they push too hard to see which one will break first.  

It’s a study in discipline and restraint, a game of love.

_Don’t wake Aslaug._

And when the orgasm comes, it’s in waves, and Lagertha’s body is wrapped around his so tight he thinks he may either die of asphyxiation or pleasure and both are equally as appealing.

They come down slowly, whispering to one another, and when Aslaug wakes to the sight of her husband on top of his wife, the first words she hears from him are “I love you,” and she knows it’s not meant for her.

_Frigg is angry with Odin, and the skies quake with lightening as they fight and agonize over what he’s about to do. She is pleading with her husband not to do it, but he is staying firm._

_Why? She asks him over and over again. Why do this to her? It was not her fault Ragnar failed. But Odin repeats their original sentence, and Frigg cries. She’s still crying when  they call in Freyja and tell her of their decision. The goddess is aghast. Do they really want her to do this? But Odin nods as Frigg runs out of the room. Weeks later, she slips down to Earth to see Lagertha._

_Oh Lagertha. Freyja is grieved. This warrior is too strong and too good to deserve such a fate. But it is Odin’s will, and she must obey it. And so, the goddess reaches inside of Lagertha to take the tiny life that is beginning to form inside._

_It is done.  A tear falls down Freyja’s cheek._

**-xxx-**

“I do not know what to say,” Ragnar says when Athelstan has the opportunity to ask about Lagertha.

“What do you mean, you do not know? Or is it that you don’t want to say it, because you fear what it might mean?”

They are standing in a clearing in the forests, overlooking a waterfall. It is just the two of them, and it feels as if there has been no time lost at all. They are just friends. Talking.

 “Do you remember Uppsala?” Ragnar asks him. He nods.

“Remember what you told me about prayer? About being mindful of how you pray?” Athelstan nods again. But Ragnar is looking out over the waterfall.

“I prayed to Odin that day. And in my prayer, I asked him who would bear my sons. I did not pray that it would be Lagertha, and I believe that the gods are punishing me for it,” he looks back at Athelstan, and the former monk realizes it is a confession.

“So tell me, priest, what should I do?”

Athelstan sighs. “I think you should let the fates and the gods decide.”

Ragnar laughs and slaps him on the back, pulling him into a hug.

“I am glad you are back home,” he says. And Athelstan is glad too.

“Now, let us pray,” he says getting down on his knees. Ragnar follows his lead. “Repeat after me,” Athelstan instructs.

“Our father…”

“Our father.”

They pray.

**-xxx-**

_It is Lagertha who kills King Horik’s wife. And it is Lagertha who gets first attack at Horik’s back. Their family takes turns striking down the king. Lagertha, Bjorn, Torstein.  Aslaug and Athelstan watch in silence. But it is Ragnar who gets to kill._

_And he does._

_With his head. With his fists. With his knife. With his axe. With a chair. He takes out his rage on Horik’s dead body and screams until there is only bones and blood remaining._

_It is Bjorn who finds all of Horik’s children dead, and for the first time begins to fear his father’s rage._

_It is Lagertha who finds Ragnar covered in gore sitting pensively in the great hall, staring at nothing. It is Siggy, Athelstan and Floki who remove the body and clean the hall._

_But it is Aslaug who crowns Ragnar a king._

_He is now more powerful than he has ever dreamed. And he has never been more miserable in his life._

Kattegat stretches into the sea below him, a growing city on the edge of an icy bay. He contemplates this new place he is in, recalling all of the things he had to do to get here. How many people he has had to kill and the decisions he has had to make. He has sacrificed happiness at the altar of Odin. And most painfully, he has sacrificed his wife.

This winter is especially cold. The ice is exceedingly thick.

Ragnar remembers how she came to him that night in the great hall, wiping the blood and bone from his face. He remembers the way her lips found his, and he recalls the need to have her, right then. He remembers taking them to the floor.

He will never forget how it feels to be inside her-- it is only during those times and when she is close to him that the dangerous maelstrom in his mind quiets. Ever since the night he lay with both women, his house has been cold and silent. Aslaug looks at him accusingly and he can’t refute it any longer.  There had been an agreement, but the aftermath has been ugly.

She has forced him into a choice: his sons or his wife, knowing how he would choose.  And as he gave his answer, he remembered Lagertha’s words to him about what would happen when this moment came. It is the right choice for the sake of his children, but he is beginning to hate Aslaug for it.  

The winter has been bitter.

Bjorn has joined him on the mountain and his son speaks to him of power. But Ragnar knows. Power is dangerous. Power corrupts.

“Power is only given to those who are prepared to lower themselves to pick it up.” He says from experience.  

It is a thirst he cannot satisfy, a hunger he cannot tame. He is never full. He craves knowledge. But knowledge _is_ power, and there are depths still lower that he must plumb to get more of it.

The children are his peace.  And when he returns home from the mountain they run out to him and he grabs a strong branch and throws it over his shoulders, lowering it to his sons to let them cling on. He spins them round and round, and the high-pitched bring him joy. He chases them into the house with the branch and he pretends to get caught at the door—falling backwards. They love it. Little Sigurd is toddling around—still not quite old enough to keep up with his brothers. But their rambunctious pile-on is interrupted as Aslaug comes from out of the backrooms, with Ivar in her arms.

He and the other boys fall silent.

“Please don’t stop on our account,” she smiles but it doesn’t reach the rest of her face.

His sons wrap themselves around his legs. “We are finished. How is Boneless?”

Aslaug looks at him hurt, and walks away.

Ragnar exhales and follows her, finding her pacing the room and trying to comfort their wailing son.

“What is the matter with him?”

“How do I know? But do you see how he suffers? And I cannot make it better… Do you even care?”

Her voice breaks a bit, as he lifts the blankets and looks at his son’s crippled, useless legs. She had stepped in when he was trying to be merciful to the child by allowing him to die, and now all that seems to happen is that Ivar cries. And cries. And cries.

No child should have to suffer like this. And he blames her for it.

“Yes, I care,” he says.

 “Do you love him?”

He looks at her sharply. “Of _course_ I love him.” he snaps.

“Do you love _me_?”

So there it is. This is what she’s been building up too. He looks at Aslaug, tears falling from her face. “Do you love me?” She whispers again.

Ragnar answers her with silence.

-xxx-

The winter is unkind and yet Hedeby provides welcomed distance, time and space to clear her troubled mind.  Lagertha can mourn by herself and for herself in the privacy of her own home.

She must find a way to move forward after the events of the past month. Why, oh why had she gone to the seer before she left Kattegat? Too much had happened, too much spoken by accident, loose lips fueled by loose legs, and where has it gotten her? Once again caught in a stupid dream that she has worked tirelessly to force away. She had forgotten her own advice. Forward, not back.

Days after sleeping with Ragnar she realized she had missed her cycle. And a week after that she had started to feel sick. When the full implication finally occurred to her, it was like lightening, and she was absolutely terrified.  …afraid of hoping and afraid of not. And so, she had gone to the seer. And that’s when he had told her:

There would be no more children.

That night she began to bleed, but she kept silent, patching herself up and carrying on as if it were simply her time. And when Ragnar told her of Aslaug’s ultimatum, she barely heard him, for she already numb. 

It is yet another strike against them by the gods. Ragnar must not know she has lost another of his sons.

Forward. Not back. It is time to move on.

By sheer force of will she pushes herself onward. But she is not completely alone. There is at least one person vested in her health-- her advisor, Kalf. He was among the first to swear fealty to her as a new earl, and he has fought by her side on the battlefield and advised her on the cultural norms of Hedeby. His counsel has always been wise, and he has done nothing but earn her trust. She has come to find herself relying on his aid more and more. He enables her to escape, if only briefly.

Kalf walks into her private quarters to find her soaking in the bathtub, brooding. He turns to leave.

“I can come back another time.”

 “There is no need. Come.”

He takes a seat next to her bath and looks down at her.

“Would you like to discuss whatever is bothering you?” He asks.

“There is nothing wrong with me, Kalf.”

“I would disagree. You’ve been distant since your arrival back here, absent at court and people are beginning to notice.”

She sighs and dips her head under the water. When she comes back up, he’s still there, waiting.

“I know what my obligations are.”

“Yes, but you also know there are some who would very much like to replace you, and I am just trying to keep your position safe.” Kalf has beautiful eyes, soft and emotive, a deep brown. He has always been kind and gentle toward her, and if circumstances were different Lagertha feels she could love him.  Her hand caresses his face.

“You have done right by me,” she tells him, “and for that I am grateful. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get out of the tub.”

He stands and goes to grab her dress, turning his eyes away as she climbs out of the bath, dries off, and slips the gown on.

 She comes to sit in the chair across from him.

She tells him of the latest offer of marriage and they both laugh, knowing Lagertha will turn it down just as she has all the others.

“Why don’t _you_ offer to marry me, Kalf?” She asks the question that’s been thumping around in the back of her head for a while now--why a man such as Kalf would be so loyal for so long. Perhaps it’s her nature now to question, a lesson from her ex-husband.

“I have nothing to offer you,” he says, “and people would assume that I did it to gain power.”

It is true. And it is also true that she wants nothing from him that he has not already freely given. Because maybe, maybe the gods are trying to tell her something. And she wants to make sure she is open enough to hear them.

“If our stations were different, would you?”

His answer is swift and certain.

“Yes.”

She smiles and stands and he rises as well to see himself out the door, but he stops a moment and looks at her, before turning back and pulling her close to him, kissing her deeply. It takes her breath away and she can only look at his retreating back as he quickly exists her rooms.

Maybe, when she returns from England, she will give Kalf a chance to heal her broken heart.

.

.

He accompanies her to the door and helps her onto her horse. She smiles back him as she and Hedeby’s best warriors set off for Kattegat. Kalf loves this woman but he knows he hasn’t earned her. She’s above him in every way, her ex-husband is Ragnar Lothbrok, and everyone knows the story—that _she_ left him.  That’s power. Kalf knows Lagertha would not truly respect him if all he does is continue to stay at her feet. He must _prove_ himself capable of protecting her, to show her he can lead in his own right—she needs an _equal_ , and this is what keeps him back.  

When the opportunity arises, he knows he must take it if he is to eventually have her. To do this, he will betray her, but in doing so, he knows he will eventually earn her respect.  Lagertha will be angry, but Kalf believes she will also understand. Eventually…if she does not kill him first.

-xxx-

Spring has come right on time, and Wessex is calling-- a needed reprieve for nearly everyone who wants to run away from the troubles at home.

As Lagertha’s boats arrive in Kattegat Ragnar is there to greet her under the watchful eyes of Aslaug. The women exchange pleasantries, but it is clear from Aslaug’s forced smile that the aftermath of their tryst is still ongoing. It is the same smile Lagertha gave to Aslaug when they first met—when the princess walked into _her_ house, pregnant with her husband’s son.

She and Ragnar stand on the docks preparing to depart and he comes a little closer and whispers into her ear.

“At least England is warm. It is cold in here.”

She throws her head back laughing, and it feels good, because it’s exactly what’s on her mind as well. As she looks for Bjorn she sees Aslaug watching from shore, and if looks alone could kill, Lagertha knows she and Ragnar would be struck dead. But the princess has nothing to worry about this time. At least, not from her.

Ragnar made his choice years ago.

It has taken most of the winter, but Lagertha has found her own footing. She knows she and Ragnar will always share many things, but some must remain in the past in order for them to go on.

At least there is Wessex, and a shared dream--to farm on faraway lands and build an empire.

-xxx-

It is in Wessex where the eyes of a king fall on Lagertha. Ragnar watches King Ecbert steals glances at his wife, and he wills himself into a wall of impassivity.

It is agreed. Lagertha will stay to establish the settlement while he and the others go to fight. But he will not leave without certain assurances. Ragnar asks Athelstan to stay with them. “You are the only one I trust,” he says, making his request clear. Athelstan nods in understanding.  

But Ragnar is deeply unhappy.

As he takes his warriors to fight a war they have no interest in, there is talk of love and women.

Rollo laments about a lost love, waiting and hoping and pining for a woman’s heart.  

“And what did you get from sitting in the weeds,” Ragnar says bitterly, “but a wet ass.”

The men laugh.

He is being an asshole today. It is a dig at his brother, because Ragnar got the woman…then lost her.

But it Floki who cuts in before it can escalate to anything more.

“Let no man mock another over what touches many men. Time and again the wise are fetched by beauty, and they ache with love longing,” Floki says.  

This is a test of Lagertha’s loyalty to him, if she has any left. He does not know. His mind understands that she deserves to have something different, but his heart does not want it to be another man. They are allies in this Wessex endeavor, but in other things…they are now unclear. Ragnar knows Lagertha has turned down offers of marriage. And it has not escaped his attention that she has left her earldom in the care of a man—one she likely trusts. And where there is trust, there is also love. And because he is a man he knows that in a quest for the fulfillment of their ambitions, men will sacrifice what they love.

King Ecbert is a powerful man. And here, he could make Lagertha a queen. He knows that he is in contest with Ecbert—both for land, and for love. And it is a very dangerous game they are playing.

England is meant to be their time together, and Ecbert has stepped between Ragnar and his wife. He doesn’t realize the competition is a three-way affair.

.

.

What a king wants, a king gets. And Ecbert is planning to get the ultimate prize. Athelstan has told him all about Lagertha, who she is—Ragnar Lothbrok’s ex-wife.

“How? Why? Is Ragnar Lothbrok _insane_?” He had exclaimed when learning this.

“ _She_ left _him_.”

A woman? Divorce a man? A powerful one at that? It is unfathomable to Ecbert. That would never happen in England. The church forbade divorce.

“On what grounds?” He asked, watching Athelstan shift uncomfortably.

“That is not my place,” the priest replied.

This raises the stakes even more. He has never seen a woman like this before: warrior, mother, a wife, an earl. She must be like iron to have divorced Ragnar Lothbrok, and she must be as steel to have remained by his side. A woman like Lagertha has _power_. And Ecbert has always craved, and been attracted to power.

There must be something magical about her, some sort of wisdom she possesses—he must find the source of her strength. He wants to tap into it, harness it, for if a woman can do all that she has, what would a man do if he possessed just a fraction of it?  He _must_ have her. He thinks he may even be in love.

And Lagertha is finding the king’s flirtations too delightful to ignore. It has been a long time since a man courted her like this. Here, her only obligation is to her settlement. There is not the burden of land disputes, or petty squabbles. She has no responsibilities here, and she is unencumbered by titles. She is unmarried and a free woman.  And he is unmarried as well. There are no complications. No emotional entanglements… It is simple.  No restrictions, no bounds, and it is arrangement that she finds satisfying.

So she decides that yes, she will go to bed with King Ecbert. He is new, and exciting—a distraction from other problems she would rather not dwell on. In Ecbert, Lagertha sees escape, if only for a little while.  And so she enjoys the king’s company. And the sex is pretty good too. And what he does to her body? It’s great. Excellent in fact.

Yet, she keeps him at a distance, even as she agrees to go to his bed.  “Tell me more about Paris,” she asks the king. And he tells her. About the walls, and the riches, buildings made of marble, and cloth woven of silk. She longs to see this place. But when he asks her to stay, her answer is firm.

“You only care about yourself. I don’t trust you.” It’s from experience.

Ecbert is a different sort of lover. But he is a very familiar type of man.

-xxx-

It is abundantly clear upon his return that Ecbert has slept with his wife. The king’s hall is alive with the sound of music and laughter. Food and wine spill as bodies writhe in drunken revelry of their victory. Ragnar moves through them like a shadow, coming to stand alongside his wife.  “It seems you two got on well,” he says sipping from his cup as he moves closer to her. She’s dressed in a blue gown, a new necklace around her neck. He knows where it has come from.

 “It’s working. We’ve planted the first crop, and King Ecbert gave us a new plow and has assured us of his protection,” she says not looking at him but a soft smile playing at her lips.

“And you believed him.”

“Yes, for the sake of all of us,” she fingers the necklace. He envisions snatching it off.

“So, you sacrificed yourself for the common good,” there is an edge to his voice, and he cannot disguise his jealously.  But Lagertha will not give and this time she does look at him “As did you, Ragnar.”

There is no comeback from that one. This fight is a draw.

He watches her walk away and slip into the crowd to dance. He takes another drink of wine to tamp down on the anger beginning to seethe inside him.

Ragnar slips behind a tapestry, calling Athelstan over to him. “Tell me what happened between Ecbert and my wife,” he says. It comes out as a slow, drunken drawl laced with anger, and Athelstan is unsure of who Ragnar is planning to kill: Ecbert, Lagertha or both.

“I don’t think that is my place,” he tries to back out of it. But Ragnar won’t let him. So, haltingly, Athelstan fills him in, sparing certain details. Ragnar gets up abruptly and begins winding his way through the hall in the shadows, become coming to sit next to Ecbert in the raised chairs, both men side by side, watching the party from a distance.

They are also both drunk. One more than the other.

“You and I, we understand each other, “Ecbert says. “That is why we are allies, and will remain so.”

 Ragnar does not answer that. Instead, he takes a sip of ale, and poses a question.

“Do you think you are a good man?” He asks.

“Yes, I think so,” Ecbert says. Are you…a good man?”

“Yes…I think so.”

They drink.

And drink some more. The music picks up.

 “Are you corrupt?” Ragnar asks, his eyes on his wife.

“Oh yes…are you?”

They watch as Queen Kwinthrith walks up to Lagertha and kisses her. Each man imagining themselves in the middle of this affair.

“Mmm hmmm,” Ragnar acknowledges, before slipping off into a fantasy where he pulls his wife away from the crowd and steers them behind a wall for privacy.

 He imagines picking her up and bracing their bodies as she wraps her legs around him and he lifts her dress—removing himself from his pants and taking her in view of Ecbert only. The necklace would be ripped off and when he’s through he will look at the king and grin.  

Ecbert’s eyes track Ragnar’s intense stare down to the floor, landing on Lagertha and he quickly realizes that he may have crossed a dangerous line.

But he understands much more about Ragnar Lothbrok now. He knows that Ragnar is angry, and he is jealous. He is selfish, and he is proud.  He is ambitious, and he is vengeful and he is _dangerous_. Very, very dangerous. They are alike, Ragnar and Ecbert. And the king knows he must tread carefully.

Ragnar is a different sort of person. But he is a familiar kind of man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would highly suggest checking out the deleted scenes from Season 2, Episode 7 along with Ep. 9-- there are two in particular, one in which Ragnar asks Lagertha for sex, and the other when Ragnar, Lagertha and Aslaug end up in bed together. These scenes make a lot more sense in the run-up to Lagertha going to the seer to ask about children. 
> 
> These scenes also inform my interpretation of events.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 

It's the beginning of the end.

This the longest they have ever been gone, and the past several months have been hard. She is _tired_. Physically, emotionally… mentally.

Aslaug has come to accept that her husband does not love her. He loves what she has done for him—given him sons, but he does not love _her._ And when he leaves, it is with Lagertha, and Bjorn. This is their time as a family. And there is no place for her in it. She has tried to accept that from the moment Lagertha returned. But her husband’s ex-wife comes around Aslaug feels her own position slipping, sliding further and further away. It is just a thread from a splitting string.

She longs to have a man want her for who she is, and not for what she can do for him. She wants that man to love her on her own terms. So she _dreams_ of a man who comes by night, humble and wanting. Desiring of only her. She dreams of how he feels inside her, and she dreams of devoting herself entirely to him, her heart, her mind, her body. She wants to love and she wants to feel love, and she wants to be made loved to—not just fucked. Not just sexed, but to actually making love. Now that she has seen it with her own eyes, she realizes that her husband has never made love to her. It burns.

Her prayers are fervent. It is the only thing she can do to keep herself sane. And when he arrives, she feels as if the gods have answered her wishes. They have brought her Harbard.

He treats her children as his own, he makes them laugh and smile, and he’s so tender, so kind to Ivar—something Ragnar never is, or was. And his eyes, his eyes stay on her.

She wants a man to say her name when he comes.  

And when he takes off his clothes, and she takes off hers, and he enters her in the fish hut by the sea, that’s exactly what he says. Harbard says her name Over and over, and over again.

She screams as she orgasms. She has never felt anything this strong before and it makes her cry. Cry for her life, and for love, which she knows this is. She never wants him to let her go. She wants to feel this emotion forever, with a man she has fallen in love with and who, she thinks, has fallen in love with her.

But it all comes crashing down when her children fall through the ice while she is sleeping with Harbard. And it gets far worse when Siggy gives up her life to save theirs.

All this, for the sake of a moment of true love.  

When she sees the boats approaching, she is nervous and afraid. And Harbard has gone, leaving her alone to deal with the aftermath.

It is not right, nor is it fair. But there’s a place inside of her that feels it was worth it, even if she must face an angry and vengeful husband.

So she waits by the docks, stilling her anxious hands, as they slowly come ashore. And when she greets Ragnar, he looks at her strangely. Knowingly.  She averts her eyes to see Rollo, calling for Siggy, and it falls to her to tell him that his wife is dead.

Lagertha looks at her with an unreadable expression, and Aslaug wants to lash out—to strike her dead, but she knows she is no match for a shield-maiden. Ragnar brushes past her without words as if she is a common vagabond, and it ignites years of festering resentments between them.

So she tells him exactly how Siggy died. And why. Because she was off making love to another man. And he is angry with her, but she is angry too. She has been unloved and neglected, used as a tool and a vessel only  and discarded.  He hates their crippled son—hates her for saving him, and she is sure Ragnar hates her for Lagertha leaving him.

But that hate is mutual.

 Aslaug hates him for cheating, for lying. For loving someone else. She hates that her power over him is fading, and she tries to reclaim it the best way she knows how.  So gets down on her knees before him, and tugs at his pants, offering herself, her face pleading with his. But he will not move, spurning her offering of sex as if she is some unwashed, used whore.

 She cannot take this anymore. She may not have an axe, but her words cut just as deep. She has stood silently by letting him have his affairs. Watching him lust after his ex-wife and have sex with her in their bed.  She has dealt with the humiliation of knowing he doesn’t love her, and the growing gulf of resentment between him. Aslaug has been abused by this man, emotionally. Spiritually. And she cannot, and will not take it anymore.

She will have her own brand of revenge.

So she tells him.  She tells Ragnar that _yes,_ she fucked Harbard. And yes, it was good.

Great in fact.

Better than she could have dreamed.

Better than even _him_.

And she tells him that yes, she _loves_ Harbard. And she says that while she is sorry Siggy has died for it, given what Ragnar has done to her, he really has no right to complain. Besides, the only difference between her affair and his is that at least she didn’t get pregnant this time.  And shouldn’t he be grateful for that? Isn’t that what he did to Lagertha? That’s what started all this, isn’t it? Isn’t is always about Lagertha?

She rails against him, slaps him, hits his chest with her fists. He does not move, his face dark and angry and Aslaug thinks in that moment he very well may strike her. And she yells even louder.

_Hit me._

Challenging him to swing.

_I DARE you._

She will be glad for it, because if he swings she will make sure Lagertha knows. And Bjorn too.  

Because Ragnar Lothbrok is a horrible husband. And a terrible, terrible man. And he does not deserve to be happy. He deserves to suffer just as she has.

But Ragnar refuses to give in to Aslaug’s rage.

All he has ever demanded from the people he considers family, is loyalty. But it is clear to him Aslaug has none. All he has asked of her is to keep his children safe, and she couldn’t even do that. Two of his sons nearly _died_ because his stupid wife couldn’t keep her legs shut.  And _she knows_ how he feels about his sons.

The impacts of her blows don’t hurt. And he doesn’t bother deflecting him. He feels nothing for her but disgust. And he tells her that he does not care if she _fucked_ Harbard in front of his sons, at least they would have been _safe._  

It is unforgiveable.

He is raging and he is enraged and it is not abating.

They have not been back in Kattegat longer than a week and already he wants to go leave. But there is no escape anywhere.

If it is not Aslaug, then it is Floki, whispering in his ear, telling him about his wife and some false god, and then shifting the conversation to Athelstan. A _Christian_ …a _corruption_ , Floki calls him.

Ragnar tries not to punch Floki in the face, choosing instead to walk away.

But then there is Lagertha…who slept with his enemy…and it is by far the worse betrayal.

The number of trusted people in his circle is growing smaller and smaller by the day.

.

.

She has remained in Kattegat to spend time with her son and await the arrival of her first grandchild. During the evenings Lagertha goes to court, laughing and making the rounds. At times she speaks to Ragnar about Paris, filling him in on all that she has learned. They have agreed to not raid England in exchange for the protection of the settlement, but Paris is someplace new. It is the promise of adventure.

“I have been told it is impregnable,” she tells him and he scoffs.

“Then I will be first to _impregnate_ it.” Her husband is being deliberately snide. And it’s not funny. It’s low. Even for him. The word touches something still raw inside her, making suppressed feelings come rushing up fast.  The wound is still fresh, and he has ripped it wide open again. The tears pool behind her eyes and she blinks them away quickly and moves to stand but Ragnar grabs her wrists and pulls her back down, and she knows her face has outed her.

“Is there anything I should know?” He asks. It’s low, and he’s searching her now for clues, hints, suggestions…

Lagertha looks at him hard, her lips set in a tight line. “There is nothing you don’t already know.” She will not say it.

But as he studies her, the truth begins to come to him. The pieces quickly fall into place as he remembers the last time he was inside of her, how long she stayed in Kattegat, and how she had suddenly become ill. It is divine inference, but it hits like a blow from Thor’s hammer and Ragnar knows immediately that his wife was pregnant, and that she again lost his child.

He drops his voice so that only she can hear.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I do not know of what you speak.”

“Fine.” he hisses at her.

She’s already done with him and he knows it. So he lets her go harshly, allowing himself to be angry too. Have they grown so far apart that she felt she could not trust him with this? He knows she never would have told him had he not deduced it for himself.

Paris appeals to him now more than ever. There is too much water under these bridges. And it’s rising fast. He is fighting against a rising tide, swimming upstream as everyone and everything around him tries to pull him down.

Paris is becoming his anchor in the storm.

It is suddenly too crowded in the great hall. Too hot. He needs to breathe. So he leaves and finds Athelstan to ask about this place called Paris. And the priest fills him in.

A city older than recorded history, with treasures and walls that reach to the sky. Buildings that gleam in the sun--an island fortress surrounded by two rivers, a land rich for plunder.

 Athelstan has always been good for information.

Ragnar begins to dream about Paris, to plan and strategize. And as he dwells on Paris, his problems fade to the background.  If what Athelstan says is true they will need more men. More allies. This could be his greatest achievement. It is a tantalizing opportunity, a challenge from the gods. Nothing is impenetrable. And he, Ragnar Lothbrok, will prove it to the world.

They are gathered in the great hall a few nights later when word arrives in Kattegat by way of a messenger for Lagertha. Her lands have been usurped. And so she goes to Ragnar for help.

“Why is it so important to you anyway?” He asks, leaning against a wall.

“Because it is _mine_!”

He studies her, all simmering anger and, just to get out of town for a while, he agrees to go with her to Hedeby, but he does not agree to help her get her earldom back. Paris is his new goal now, and he cannot risk getting tied down in someone else’s fight. The last time he did that, he nearly lost his family. These are battles left to individuals to fight, even if it is his wife…his ex-wife.

This is just another opportunity.

And so he meets the “usurper,” the man Lagertha entrusted with her earldom. The man Ragnar knows his wife may have possibly loved. Or at least, strongly liked. He sizes up Kalf, and smirks as it comes to him, exactly what he will do.

He makes the usurper a deal. Hedeby’s warriors will come to Paris, or Ragnar will leave Kalf to deal with his ex-wife, _alone_.  It is both a threat and a promise. And as Kalf’s eyes dart from Ragnar to Lagertha, he knows the King is not joking.

Kalf knows Lagertha is still powerful, and perfectly capable of getting her earldom back on her own. She could raise an army against him. And so he agrees to the King’s demand.

Ragnar smiles.

Lagertha does not. But he does not care about her feelings, as she discarded his in England and continues to do so.  So he will do the same. She will stay by his side whether she wants to be there or not. His ex-wife belongs to him, she has always belonged to him, and it is high time he remind her of this. She had her fun in England, not it is time to pay for it.

It is her punishment for her lack of loyalty and for keeping secrets. For lying to him. It is her punishment for losing yet another of his children.

.

_Frigg sits alone in her great hall watching it all. She has not spoken a word to Odin in months. They sleep in seperate beds, in different chambers. Her husband is cruel--overly so. She hasn't forgotten how he told Freyja to steal Lagertha's light. So much suffering, all around. Aslaug, Ragnar, Lagertha...the circle of despair grows wider. If Ragnar would just repent, apologize, try to believe again then maybe she could convince Odin to stop it. But Ragnar is too proud. She can see Lagertha's heart begin to cool, and this worries her. If Lagertha abandons Ragnar he will have nothing left, and there will be no one to save him from himself. He will be utterly and completely alone._


	12. Chapter 12

 

**Chapter 12**

She has gone from spurned wife, to abused wife, to an earl and now…now, she has no home. Hedeby is gone, and once again, something that she has valued has been stolen from her, by yet another man she had trusted. Rollo of all people had warned her of this back in Wessex, and he was right. A man’s ambitions will always get in the way of his heart.

Her ex-husband had taught her that lesson first. How had she allowed herself to forget it? She knows why. Because she had hoped. She had hoped that Kalf was different. She let herself believe he was different because she _wanted_ to trust him. He was supposed to be her safety net. And he’d failed.

How could she have not seen this coming? Kalf had been so loyal, so gentle, and so kind. Lagertha had come to like him, and while she could not bring herself to say she loved him, there had been—at least she thought—something there.

Betrayal.

He may not have had her love, but he did at least have her trust, and the deceit feels almost as bitter as heartbreak. **Almost**. _That_ can’t happen twice.

Lagertha watches as the world she has fought so hard to build for herself and her son begins to crumble away. And she realizes that love has caused her to make mistake after mistake. Two steps forward, four backward. How stupid she was to trust her ex-husband! They had _promised_ to be there for one another. And throughout these past five years she has held up her end of the deal—fighting by his side, providing him with warriors, and if she were honest, more than that really. Far more than what he deserved. They were allies, and she had believed up until recently, that they were friends. That they could be friends.  But yet again, he has broken his promise to her--the ones that were made and sealed in the only way they knew how.

Ragnar has chosen to align himself with her usurper, and he has used her.

Again.

Lagertha knows exactly what this is about. He is trying to punish her for Wessex, and he’s covering up for it under the guise of diplomacy. It would not be the first time.

They are not together, and he has a separate family all his own. She only has her son. She owes Ragnar nothing, and _he_ owes her _everything_. She has given birth to his children, she has _killed_ for him. She has fought for him and with him and she has never demanded anything from him in return. He has no _right_ to demand _anything_ other than her loyalty. And with no earldom of her own, even that’s no longer a guarantee. The last thing she feels like being is loyal, especially when hers was not returned.

Ragnar Lothbrok is still the same selfish bastard he was when he fucked Aslaug and brought her into their home. She has never forgotten. She never will. This will _never_ happen again. She _will_ regain her earldom. And she will do it on her own terms, and in her own time. And she will do it without her ex-husband.

As they ride back to Kattegat in silence, she begins to form a plan. It will take time, and she will have to wait… but Lagertha is a patient woman. A _VERY_ patient woman. And she never forgets those who have crossed her.

-xxx-

The journey from Hedeby to Kattegat takes far longer than it did to get there in the first place. And the silence between them is as wide as the ocean and as cold as ice.

Ragnar is not accustomed to being so close to his wife and her not speaking a word to him. He keeps stealing glances at her, rocking gently on top of her horse as they ride side-by-side. She is sitting up and looking straight ahead. He does not think she has turned his way even once.

It was only a momentary victory for him. But the feeling of triumph is fading fast as they ride back home.

He sighs and pulls the reins just a bit, to catch up to her. He knows that she is angry. And he wonders whether or not he should speak again. She killed her second husband to become an earl, he thinks darkly. She may have no qualms about killing him too. Finally, he makes a decision. And he chooses his words very, very carefully.

“Lagertha.” (He decides against calling her his wife this time).

She rides on, deliberately ignoring him. To her, he is not Ragnar, King of the Danes, king of the Northmen. He has no rule over her, his words have absolutely no authority. He cannot demand she stop, and even if he did, it would be of little use.

May he find a place in Hel and die of old age and sickness.

May the gates of Valhalla be closed to him.

And may the gods turn against him for his stupidity and his selfishness. Lagertha firmly believes that in a series of bad decisions, this is by far the worst one.  Instead of fighting for her to reclaim her earldom, he has allowed the usurper Kalf, to keep it.

When she thinks about all that she has endured to earn a place for herself in this world only to have it snatched away, there’s a fresh wave of fury that courses through her body.  And what is worse is that Ragnar genuinely does not understand _why_ Hedeby is so important to her. Ragnar has everything. And she has _nothing_. All she has ever done is given to him, and all he has ever done is taken from her. Her family. Her home, and now, her earldom.

It is not fair.

Men. They take, and take, and take—and they give absolutely nothing.  

Lagertha’s white horse comes to a sudden stop, and Ragnar’s draws up close.

She waits for him to speak.

“I know you are angry with me. But Kalf has the better claim on Hedeby. We would lose too many men in a civil war, and we need those men for Paris.”

“But I need Hedeby for _my_ _son_!”

 _Her_ son. He looks at the sky and exhales long and slow. Ragnar knows exactly where this is going—or rather, he thinks he knows. She told him why she took Hedeby in the first place—to expand their joint holdings in the hope that one day, Bjorn would inherit it all.

“I am king, now. When I die Bjorn will inherit everything. He will be king over a great land. It is alright to let Hedeby go for a while.”

He is trying to make her see reason, but they both know this is not about Hedeby.

“And what of your other sons?”  She challenges him. “And your _wife_?  If you were to die tomorrow _Aslaug_ would still be queen. And she _will_ favor her sons over mine. And that will be her right. And _where_ would that leave our son? Would a civil war be best _now,_ or then? Because _I promise you_ , Ragnar, I will **not** stand by and see my son’s birthright be usurped. You’ve done that to me enough times.”

 “Then it is good that I will not die tomorrow.” he says drily.

This is what has always worried Lagertha—the future of her only child, and son. Everything she has done has been for Bjorn.  

“There is one thing you can do for me, if you are sincere about trying to make this right,” she says.

“What do you want?” Ragnar asks, mentally going over a possible list of things that Lagertha will demand from him.

“I want my dowry back.”

He nearly falls from his horse.

“What?! Why now, Lagertha? When you could have had it then? Maybe…” his eyes are flashing warning signs, “maybe if you had taken your _dowry_ when you took _my_ son then none of this—would ever have happened.” He gestures around them in the air.

What she is demanding now is a complete divorce. One where there is no gray area, no way to paint it as anything other than what it is. She is asking for a clean break—and he is not willing to give it to her.

“It is _your_ fault. Not mine!” He yells at her.

They are no longer arguing about Hedeby.

 “You’re right. It is my fault I could not give you sons. It _is_ my fault for marrying you in the first place. It is my fault for loving you, and trying so hard to give you everything you wanted, and failing to do so. Perhaps you should have divorced me after Gyda was born and we could have saved ourselves a _lot_ of trouble. I will swear to you right now Ragnar Lothbrok, one day I will have my home back. And I will take back the place that is rightfully _mine_. And I DARE you to try and stop me.”

She spits the words like arrows, each striking him.

“I regret the day I agreed to marry you. My _father_ was mistaken about the kind of _man_ you are. You are dead to me—worse than the horse shit on the bottom of my shoe.” Her voice trembles with raw anger as she turns her horse and takes off at a gallop, putting even greater distance between them, and leaving Ragnar alone. 

He gets off his horse to walk around and punches the tree in front of him in frustration. He has never seen her so mad, so furious, and he knows she is deadly serious. What she is threatening is nothing short of war, and Lagertha’s fame is nearly equal to his. She could raise an army against him, though he does not believe that she will do so. No, he _knows_ that she won’t…at least, not _now_. There is too much at stake and she knows it. Any conflict would hurt their son.  And now, as he did as a child, he is stepping between his parents to make sure they don’t kill each other—only this time, Bjorn doesn’t know it.

Ever since he became king Lagertha has been pulling away from him, putting up walls and refusing to let him enter. It would be a lie to say he does not resent her for it, to say he does not feel betrayed.

He accepted long ago she would not live in his house. And he accepted they would no longer live as a husband and wife… but he has never accepted that their divorce was a final thing. And in both heart and mind, he has continued to believe, and to call her, his wife.

It is at this moment when kingship weighs the heaviest on his head.

Maybe she will forgive him this fault, as she has forgiven him all the others. But he doesn’t really believe that.

Ragnar rides by himself back to Kattegat, the wind blowing a chill through his bones, and when he looks further up the road there’s just a glint of red, yellow and white.

**-XXX-**

The days grow colder as the seasons change, and it feels as if all of his close friends and family have abandoned him, save for his young children and Athelstan.  Bjorn is not speaking to him. Aslaug is not speaking to him. Rollo is deep in his own grief and he cannot bear to even deal with Floki right now.

And Lagertha….

They are fishing today, something Ragnar has not done in a long time. It feels good to row the boat slowly out to sea and to just sit in companionable silence. He has many questions for Athelstan, and it has also been a long time since the two men simply spoke to one another. It’s been nothing but problem after problem since the return from England. That was two months ago. But Ragnar has not forgotten.

“So…tell me about Princess Judith.”

Athelstan looks at him with an expression of shock, and Ragnar laughs.

“How—did you know?” the priest asks.

“I know many things,” Ragnar replies tapping his temple with a finger.

“You are very…observant,” Athelstan relents.

“So I assume you have finally entered a woman.”

Athelstan cringes. It is very Ragnar to be so blunt about such things. He should be accustomed to questions like this. The Northmen are very different when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh.

“Do you love her?” Ragnar is probing, testing, looking at Athelstan as if he could read his mind.

“Yes,” Athelstan finally admits.

“Then why did you not stay?”

“Because I don’t belong there. There is nothing for me there, nor here, or anywhere. I am a man without a place. I don’t know who I am or where I am meant to be. I am…lost. Conflicted. Confused. I am pulled to the Christian God and yet I cannot accept that my experiences here have not been truthful either.”

There. He has given voice to the feelings he has been struggling with. It is out now. He looks at Ragnar, who sits in front of the boat, his back to him.

It is the King’s turn now to speak.

“I do not know if I still believe in the fates, or the gods,” Ragnar says quietly.

“Never have I felt such power and misery in equal measure. I have children to carry my legacy, and yet I have two wives that despise me. Friends that abandon me. There are enemies all around, and I cannot distinguish anymore between who is a friend and who is a foe, and sometimes, most of the time, I believe they are one and the same.”

They sit in silence a moment, until there is a pull at Athelstan’s hook. He stands up quickly and reels in his fish. It is a good size, and will make for a good dinner. He is pleased. He rebaits his hook and casts out his line.

“What about Lagertha?” He asks.

“What about her?” Ragnar snaps, and Athelstan knows he’s hit something very sensitive. He doesn’t go any further right now, but he will circle back to this.

 “Tell me more about what your God says about love,” Ragnar asks.

So this _is_ the problem.  Athelstan searches his memory for an appropriate analogy, and it comes to him.

 “There was a great king, named Solomon, and he had many wives,” Athelstan begins looking at Ragnar and watching a slow smile spread across his friends’ face at the mention of “many wives.” He shakes his head. Ragnar will never give that one up.

“But there was one woman he desired, a queen. Makeda, known as the Queen of Sheba. She was the most beautiful woman in the land, but she was not attracted to Solomon. She was not impressed by his wealth, or his status, and so he had to find a new way to seek her affections. And so he began to court her.”

Ragnar is laying back in the boat, his hands behind his head, eyes closed, facing the sky as Athelstan continues the story.

“But Solomon was not the only man who yearned for Makeda. She had many suitors. And the king grew jealous of the others. He tried to control the Queen, to bend her to his will, but she rebuked him.

_Put me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm. For love is as strong as death, Jealousy is as severe as Sheol; Its flashes are flashes of fire, The very flame of the LORD._

 “The King offers her all that he has, his wealth his lands. For he is sick with love. But the queen sees through it.

Many waters cannot quench love, Nor will rivers overflow it; If a man were to give all the riches of his house for love, It would be utterly despised."

“He learns that he cannot win her with treasures. She is not interested in his land, or his property or his wealth or his power. What she wants is to know that he loves her enough to give of himself. That he loves her enough to _sacrifice_ a part of him to be with her. _That_ is what the Bible says of love.”

Ragnar is sitting up now, glowering at him.  But Athelstan is holding his ground. He loves Ragnar, respects him as well. But he also feels that what his friend has done to both Lagertha, and Aslaug is wrong. And this is his way of telling Ragnar now.

Pride is a sin, and Ragnar has it in abundance. Ambition and power have corrupted him, it has made him arrogant and selfish. And on this, the Christian God is clear: What will it profit a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? 

He waits as Ragnar debates on how to respond. Athelstan can see the conflict in his face.

“I feel as if I am surrounded by people, always wanting, wanting. Taking from me. I have given everything for my people—given up my wife, my life, my family. But I feel so alone, as if I am the only one who is thinking further, toward the future. Tell me, Athelstan, am I selfish in my dream? In my passions? Am I wrong to hunger for more, yearn for more? Am I wrong to sacrifice those who I love to gain more knowledge, and understanding? I know that there is more to this world than this.”

Ragnar gestures with his hands.

“And yet I feel as if everyone around me wants to pull me back. I feel as if every day I wake up to fight. And I know that there will be a day I no longer can. I want more for them than I ever had. And so yes, I am selfish. Because I believe we can be so much _more_. But I am growing tired. And the losses have been so great.”

The king has answered his own question.

“Those were your _choice_ s,” Athelstan says quietly. “And now we are all dealing with the consequences of them now.”

He wishes there were more that he could do for Ragnar. But he cannot minister to the king’s soul while struggling to save his own.  They row back to shore in silence, and Ragnar leaves him behind as he heads slowly back to a cold house.

Athelstan returns to his own.

That night, he has an epiphany. His God has finally spoken. He feels as if he has been born again, and he baptizes himself in the waters.

The next day he shares the good news with Ragnar, but the king is…Grieved, almost. And Athelstan gets it. He knows what Ragnar is feeling—yet another loss of someone he has loved. But the monk knows he cannot be a Christian in a pagan world. In this way, the two friends are now separated. But Ragnar cannot accept it.

Athelstan feels sorry for him.

There are many things Ragnar cannot accept and that he is powerless to change, and this is one of them. The priest knows his days are numbered, and so he spends most of them on his knees, in prayer.

And when he sees Floki, hovering above him, axe in hand, he knows his time has come. He has said his goodbyes. He has spoken his last words. He smiles, and allows Floki to kill him, sending him to heaven, where he meets his God.

.

.

Ragnar is deep in planning for Paris when the first news arrives from England. The settlement in Wessex has been destroyed. The man that brings it is the last survivor. It is a blow to his pride, and to his position. He has risked everything for that settlement. He has staked too much political capital on it, and in it. He has killed a king over it. And his decision is quick. He kills the old farmer, choking the life out of him.

It is murder, the first time he has killed a man in cold blood. There is no redemption from murder short of death.

Ragnar’s legacy will remain intact even as another pound of flesh is carved from his soul. Paris is calling, and he believes his destiny lies there.

He has just finished covering up this deed when the second piece of news arrives:

Athelstan has been killed, his dear friend Athelstan, murdered. Murdered for his faith, killed for his Christian God.

Ragnar has killed an innocent man and he knows what the tradeoff is—an innocent man has been killed.

It is justice.

It is not fair.

Both deaths weigh on his mind.  But he knows who murdered his friend. He may not be able to take revenge on King Ecbert, but he can take revenge on Floki. Ragnar would burn his own house to avenge Athelstan, and now he is just counting the days.

.

_Odin sits alone in his great hall, staring down at the earth pensively. For a moment he considers intervening, but he cannot reverse that decision. His son stands at the precipice of disaster and ruin, and while he wants to save him, he cannot. Ragnar has turned his back on his on him. Odin sees two paths—one that leads to glory, the other death. And the path to glory is beginning to fade, and path toward death grows ever wider._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

It is Bjorn who talks her into staying in Kattegat, giving voice to the concerns she raised with Ragnar days ago—that he will favor his other children over hers. But Lagertha reassures her son.

“He loves you.”

“But I _know_ him," Bjorn says with urgency. And Lagertha knows him too. 

So she decides to stay, and she is glad for it, because she gets to meet her new grand-daughter. Siggy.

As she cradles the baby in her arms she has a moment of reflection—they are grandparents now.

Grandparents.

This is a rare thing. Most of their people don’t live past 40. Her father never lived to meet her children. Neither did Ragnar’s parents. Nor most of the parents of their long dead friends. It is a miracle, and a blessing from the gods. Somehow, they have still found favor with their family. 

She may no longer be able to bear children, but the feel of Siggy in her arms brings her a feeling on contentment she has not felt in years. And as she looks down into the new eyes, she thinks this child  is reason enough to stay, at least for a little while as she begins to rebuild her life for the third time.

Ragnar will not be allowed to destroy her, even as it seems that it’s what he is hell-bent on doing.

.

.

Bjorn is her favorite sparring partner. And at times Rollo joins them in her house up the mountain. These are good days, fun days. The feel of cold steel in hand is fortifying, and they fight and they spar. But she is yearning for a _really_ good fight; one where she can draw blood and release all the pent up anger that’s been tumbling around in her heart.

The warriors of Kattegat are no match—she has trained many of them herself, and is still giving lessons. However, it is not the same, and she is growing increasingly restless and frustrated with nowhere to go. 

As an Earl, she could plan her own raids and choose her own destination, but here she is subjected to the whims of _King Ragnar_. They have barely exchanged any words. The first time was when he delivered her dowry to her door and walked away in stony silence. That dowry meant the world to her. It was her father’s arm bracelet, the one he had given Ragnar to signify his permission for marriage.

She has seen her ex-husband sparingly since then, often sitting alone on his porch in his chair, staring at the city square. He has cut a grim figure lately, brooding and menacing. And she has no illusions about what is happening in that house. Bjorn has told her. There is no happiness there. And quite honestly, she does not feel the least bit sorry for him. Ragnar has earned every bit of the misery he is now in.

On the few occasions she has entered the great hall he has watched her to the point that she has just opted to leave, slipping away quietly and leaving him searching.

This is the way it is now. She is finding she cannot continue to care about the health, wealth or safety of Ragnar Lothbrok. She misses the man he was, and she cannot _stand_ the man he has become. King Ragnar disgusts her.

Yet when he comes to her door again a few weeks later, she knows something is gravely wrong. He looks hollowed out, and sick. Not in body, but in heart. And she fears the worst. Is it her son?

“No” he tells her.

But when he says “Athelstan” and “murdered”, her legs give out, and he grabs her and holds her.

She buries her face in Ragnar’s shoulder allowing him this one moment of touch as she fights back the tears. It was Athelstan who nursed her back from emotional death when she miscarried the first time. He had bathed her, and fed her, and cared for her through her grief.  He has watched over their children, and cared for Ragnar when he was injured. Athelstan is…was family. And it feels as if a part of her had died too.  

Yet, once she gathers herself, one look at her ex-husband's face lets her know that his grief is far worse than hers could ever be. There are few people he trusts more. Athelstan has been been Ragnar’s confidant, and Lagertha knows with surety that now there is no one left. All of their friends are either dead, or through Ragnar's own actions alienated. He has a marriage but no wife, children too young, and a son from whom he is growing more estranged by the day.  Ragnar loved Athelstan as a brother, taking up the place in Ragnar's heart Rollo abandoned upon his betrayal and never got back.

Now Athelstan is gone, and it is not lost on Lagertha the reason Ragnar has come to her. It has fallen to her once again to contain her ex-husband. And so she bottles her grief, and allows him to continue to hold her and comfort her, knowing he is really trying to comfort himself.  

They share no words. No tears pass between them. But he is holding on to her as if he may drown. She allows him this one.

Finally, he releases her.

“We leave for Paris in three weeks,” he says, his voice flat.  

Lagertha knows Ragnar will never say ‘thank you’ or acknowledge what she’s done. But she’s okay with that, because as much as she loves him, she let him go a while ago.  

Forward. Not back.

-xxx-

She agrees to go to Paris because Bjorn is all she has. And Ragnar’s son will follow his father.

There is new leather armor outfitted with chainmail for added reinforcement. They do not know what they will face, and she wants to be ready. And there is her tent and furs which she rolls into a bundle. There are blankets and otter pelts—meant to block out the water on the sea—these she will wear when they depart. And as the day gets closer, she’s almost trembling with anticipation.  More than a year has passed spent living in Kattegat. It is time to be free.

But all her enthusiasm for this raid fades quickly when she hears the horns blow and sees the familiar blue shields of Hedeby approaching the shore.  Kalf is here. The all-to-familiar burn of betrayal stings in her chest as she watches _her_ boats approach Kattegat, the usurper now commanding them. It still makes her incensed that Kalf did this.

Yet, if she were truthful with herself, she would say she was impressed with his cunning, and the fact he actually had the balls to follow through with his plan. Maybe if things had gone down differently, she would have loved Kalf. As it is now though when she sees him, she just wants to throw him into the water.

Lagertha barely acknowledges her ex-husband and her usurper as she makes her way tothe boats, her son right behind her. In previous times she has ridden under her own blue banners, those of Hedeby. Today she will ride under the Raven flag of Ragnar Lothbrok.  She sees the two men talking and imagines drowning them together. Paris. She reminds herself. Remember why you are here. Paris and Bjorn.

Ragnar comes aboard, and father and son embrace. She sees her ex-husband glance her way, but she refuses to acknowledge him, turning her back on him to stare out over the ocean as they set sail.

-XXX-

They have made camp quickly, and all around people are moving, working. In the king’s tent, Ragnar is surrounded by his worst enemies and his worst friends.

He circles quietly as they bicker among themselves--who will control what part of the attack. He watches Lagertha shoot down Kalf, and he cannot help himself, he smiles. His ex-wife is in fighting form today. 

He does not say a word. He has given command to Floki. He has a special place for Floki; The boat builder believes Ragnar does not know it was him who killed Athelstan. But he does know. And Floki has no idea how very, very angry he is. He will soon know the fury of a patient man. This will be a slow punishment. A public humiliation, a disgrace to the gods. Ragnar knows Floki will fail, and he will believe it to mean the gods have abandoned him. It will fuck with Floki’s _mind_ , and that is exactly what Ragnar wants. To make his _friend_ suffer, and to put him into a spiritual pain of which there is no redemption.

Ragnar watches them leave one by one. But it is Lagertha who stays back. He looks at her and she raises an eyebrow at him.

“Why are you doing this?” She asks.  He knows what she means. Why is he leaving Floki in charge. She believes it to be a tactical mistake, and there is high probability it is, and that is the point.

He answers her with silence, and that is answer enough.

“So you are willing to sacrifice all of us?”

 He fingers the cross in his neck and her eyes go to it, then back to his. Paris was supposed to be his glory. And it will be. But now it is so much more. It is about his dreams, and his ambitions and his revenge.  And yes, he is willing—very willing—to sacrifice all of them for revenge. Even her. 

This is what they do. Ice and Fire. 

Lagertha walks toward him wordlessly, kissing him chastely on the side of the mouth. Her eyes are sympathetic. But he doesn't want her sympathy. Nor her pity.

 Instead he wants more. Always more. He catches her lips again as she tries to pull away and keeps them on his, lingering, savoring and trying to force her to bend to his will. He pulls her close to deepen it and moves to take her to the ground, already imagining her legs spread for him, allowing him to take out all his pain and anger and frustration toward her and everyone else  between her legs.

But she won’t give, and she pushes him back, staring at him expressionlessly.  

“I miss him too,” she says flatly before turning her back on him and walking away.  

He watches her retreat, and Ragnar cannot decide whether he loves Lagertha or hates her, or whether it is both in equal measure.

His thoughts are scattered and unfocused--shifting constantly between his friends and his enemies.

Perhaps Paris is a good place to die, he thinks, and to take them all with him.

-xxx-

The battle is excruciating. It is the most intense fight they have ever faced. The walls surrounding the city are like stone a fortresses, and the Franks are better armed. But the Northmen are determined. And so is she. After hours of pushing, her forces have breached the Parisian gates. And Lagertha is charging ahead, Kalf right behind her. Death is surrounding them, and yet in this moment she feels _alive._

The great wooden doors slowly begin to open in front of her, and she prepares for the final assault. But as she does so, Kalf is saying something, his hands on her wrist. She shakes him off and keeps walking forward determinedly, warriors dashing out in front, all around them.  But she is struck hard on the head. And before she can say or think anything, everything goes dark.

Lagertha is not awake to see her son and Ragnar scaling the bridge. She does not see them make it to the top of the Parisian walls. She does not see Bjorn fall from arrows in his back. Nor is she awake to see Ragnar _throw_ himself from the top… an attempt at suicide that fails as he slams into the walls and lands on dead and dying men.

It is Ragnar who, bloodied, his head swimming from the impact, sees his son dying. It is a grief he cannot put into words, a sorrow he cannot bear. For the first time in a long time, he is struck by fear. This is no longer about him. It is about his _child_. His first-born, and Lagertha’s only one. He grabs Bjorn, and drags him from the front lines and through the water, stained red by dead men’s blood.

-xxx-

Rollo is shaking her, startling her awake. She doesn’t understand the words he’s saying at first there’s ringing in her ears… _Bjorn_ … _dying_ ….and then it all comes back to her.

The siege.

 Lagertha jumps up from the cot, fear and panic in her heart. She rushes to the tent and sees her son’s prostrate body, the holes in his back. He is unconscious, not moving.  The healer is working on him, and she is terrified he may die. She cannot lose her son. He is her life, he is all she has left.

“What happened!?” she yells at Ragnar, holding Bjorn’s face in her hands. He is standing over them breathing hard, his hand on his side.

But when he answers her it is like ice in her veins.

“He was proving you don’t need a _title_ to be a leader.”

 It is a direct hit. 

She swallows hard to stop herself from punching Ragnar. Instead, she bites her lip and begins to pray to the gods to spare her son. She prays that they take her life, instead of his. And she stays there until the healer tells her that Bjorn will recover. She stays until she can see for herself that he is breathing, and she falls asleep on the ground beside him. Ragnar is watching but she ignores him.

Bjorn is far more important to her.

It is Rollo who wakes her gently in the late hours. He wraps his arms around her and brings her to her feet. “Bjorn will be fine,” he tells her. “He is favored by the gods.”

Yes. Yes he is. Who knew it could be Rollo to take up the responsibilities Ragnar has abdicated? But they share things in common now too—loss and grief, and betrayals at the hands of Ragnar Lothbrok.

When she is finally alone in her tent, she begins tend her own wounds. Her body aches, and she is slow in taking off her armor. There are bruises down her arms, and her head hurts. Paris has brought them all low. The defeat is a blow to everyone.  She is disappointed in her ex-husband. Ragnar’s need for revenge has nearly gotten them all killed. And she strongly doubts that he cares.

Her mind and thoughts are heavy as she begins to wash the blood from her skin. At least Bjorn will live. At least her son is safe. There’s a stinging sensation when she moves to clean the blood from her head, where Kalf struck her.

The tent opens and she doesn’t even turn around. If this were another time, it would be Ragnar coming in. But tonight, it is Kalf who enters.

Kalf.

Her usurper, her betrayer, and the man who saved her life. Once upon a time, she had entertained a relationship with him, but he had told her he had nothing to offer. And then he took what was hers.  

He has come with a confession that doesn’t surprise her. A profession of love, and adoration. Of desire. And he also comes with an offer. It is an easier way than war, and she is tired of fighting, and so she accepts. But she is honest as well. And she warns him that she will not forgive what he has done, and that she will kill him one day for it. He answers her with his mouth and his hands and she allows him to touch her.

Lagertha is _tired_. Tired of fighting, and tired of feeling.

She lets him to massage her shoulders and kiss her neck. She lets him try to wash away all the years of hurt and anger, in an effort to make something new. Lagertha makes a decision—one for herself and no one else.

And as he removes her clothes, and takes them to the floor, she lets him in, and allows him to try his best to purge Ragnar Lothbrok from her mind and her body.

For Kalf, it is everything he has prayed for. He wants to please her, to make her love him. He wants to try and make her whole and erase the scars of betrayal, the ones he inflicted, and those of others. And so he is gentle, taking his time, drawing it out to make sure he can last for her. He will do anything she asks, protect her until the end. Because Lagertha is the only woman he has ever desired, and now that he has her, he has no intention of letting her go.  She is his now to protect, and to hold, and he’s ready to die for her if he must.

Ragnar’s threat to him is now rendered moot. And now he has something to hold over the king.

.

.

It was said in anger. And he knows he must make amends for that. She did not deserve it, especially when their son’s life was in immediate danger.

When he can, Ragnar goes to seek her out. 

 But when he gets near her tent, he sees Kalf slip in. And he ducks behind another structure to wait. It’s quiet, too quiet, and he walks in closer until he can hear them now, talking.

 He hears Kalf profess love to his wife. And he hears her response. A promise of death, if he can accept it.

The next sounds he hears make him strongly consider going in and interrupting. Of snatching her away from Kalf. His anger towards her blooms anew. She would rather use sex for battle than a sword. It’s unlike her. It’s _beneath_ her. She is not _fighting_ for it.

It makes him feel as if she has given up, and his rage only grows. Rage is an easy cover, a way for him to ignore his own role in it. 

All Kalf had needed was time and opportunity, and Ragnar gave him both. He cannot stand the fact that there’s someone else standing his place.

He can _hear_ them. And he can _see_ them. And it settles in him. It _burns._

Ragnar begins to fantasize about death. To crave it.

-xxx-

His men are cold. They are tired, and they are hungry. They have been in Frankia for two months and yet they have not found a way to breech Paris’ walls.

Floki’s plan has failed.

Lagertha’s plan has failed.

Rollo’s plan has failed.  

They have all failed him. Paris was to be his greatest achievement, a tribute to a fallen friend. And it is slipping away.

It is all their fault.

He remembers what the seer has told him. That only the dead will conquer Paris. And if that is how it must be done, then so be it. Let death claim him—he wants nothing more now to be with his one, _true_ friend.

Ragnar is sick, and he knows he is dying, his piss running red with blood, burning. When he coughs there is pain throughout his body, and he sweats in the night and in the day. He stinks.

Athelstan is his only comfort now, but Athelstan is dead. Ragnar hallucinates. He dreams. There are varying images of better times, of the people he has loved, and lost. Death is calling him, and he is ready.  His gods have abandoned him, his friends have abandoned him, Lagertha has left him, and there is absolutely nothing else he can lose.

So he makes a decision—based on one foot in this world, and one foot out of it.

He seeks to be baptized.

Is he sincere, is he not? He does not know. But if it will bring him closer to Paris, and to his one, true friend, then he will be baptized in the water.

 And when they question him about what he is doing, he launches into them, one by one. But he saves a special attack for Lagertha. It _is_ her fault—all of this!  She was the one to kill Haraldson’s brother, setting in motion the chain of events that have led him to this point. Lagertha made him into an earl, and she also helped make him a king.

She failed in her duties to him as a wife. And it is _her_ fault that they are in this place. Ragnar wants to hurt her, to cut her down, break her, drag her with him when he goes down.  

He begins coughing up blood, and staggers in the midst of his rant.

But she refuses to be cowed. 

Lagertha waits until they have all gone their separate ways, and she looks inside the tent to her ex-husband, doubled over and bloodied. Ragnar is a dying man, a broken man, who is quickly becoming a fallen hero.

There is too much there. What she wants to do is to spit on him, and curse his name. To rail at him for all of the abuses, and kill him for all the emotional scars he’s left on her heart. And she wants to fall to her knees and hold him, and comfort him, and touch him, and wash his face, because she knows he is hurting too. But that is not possible. They’ve crossed over that line.

It does not matter whether she is the cause of his anger; what she knows is that she can longer bear the brunt of it.  

They are nearing the end. And it comes two days later.

He is dead. And everything that she has been holding back comes out. She cannot help herself. This is the end, she thinks. Their end. And what a sad, tragic and pitiful story it is. There is no one there to hear her words, only him. And she does not know where he is—in Valhalla or in Heaven. He could be everywhere, or nowhere—and she hopes he has found some peace for his troubled heart.

She whispers to him in the box, knowing that he cannot hear her, and perhaps this is why she speaks it-- her confession, tightly held and closely guarded.

_“For I have never stopped loving you. Not for one moment. You and I were born to be together.”_

These are her most private thoughts, her most sincere feelings…No tears fall as she watches his casket being carried into the gates of Paris.

It is done.

Forward. Not back.

Or not….

Because the dead rise, and she watches dispassionately as her dead ex-husband walks back out through the gates very much alive, very much standing, and collapses into Bjorn’s arms.

They are looking at each other. His eyes, pleading. Her own, glaring.

There are no words. No actions. It is the vilest transgression. The worst possible violation.

She wants to put her axe in his head.

 She is _done_.

 They are _done_.

**DONE.**

**.**

He heard her every word. What she does not know is how hard it was for him to walk back out of those doors, and face her. Not as a King, not as her ex-husband. Not even as her equal, but _less_ than. 

He has been angry with her for months. Barely speaking, and even when he did, his words have been hateful, pushing her further and further away from him. She doesn’t know that he watched as Kalf entered her tent—that he had been on his way too, to give her comfort and an apology. But he had not been first. She does not know that he saw them, naked and entwined.

There are accusations in her eyes as she walks past him, twirling two axes in her hands, and he can tell exactly what she is thinking—that those axes should be meant for him.

He is guilty of everything.

If he had been a better man, she would still be his wife. That is something that Athelstan once told him.

Athelstan, the good Christian, had been a far better man than him. He had chided Ragnar over this once. When they had returned from Wessex the last time. Ragnar had not wanted to go home, and had it not been for his children, he wouldn’t have. But Athelstan had shut him down.

“At least you have children,” he’d said. And now, Ragnar realizes what Athelstan didn’t say.

_Children. Family. And a woman who loves you._

Lagertha’s plaintive words meant for him alone were almost enough to make him give up his rouse. But he couldn’t. Instead, he made a silent promise to her in the box that when he dies he will come to her. She will be the last face he sees so that he can carry her with him into eternity, wherever that may be.

_Why can’t I just die?  
_

_._

_It is somber in their great hall. All the gods are gathered watching events unfold. Odin and Frigg are separated. She has not forgiven him from stealing the life from Lagertha’s body. But Odin is all powerful, and it is up to him to decide whether Ragnar lives or dies. Living, the great god decides. And for only the second time, Frigg agrees with her husband's decision. She is so very angry with Ragnar. For everything. Death would be merciful, but Ragnar deserves none.  
_

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 

The journey back to Kattegat is a difficult one. Rollo has elected to stay behind, and Floki is a shell of himself. It has fallen to Lagertha and Bjorn to care for Ragnar and he is standing guard over her to ensure that she does not do anything rash.

Like try to murder his father.

 It is the first time Bjorn is more concerned for his father’s welfare than his mother’s. And for good reason. He knows beneath the mask Lagertha is wearing is the heart of a woman who has been through hell.

The victory in Paris has been great, but they have all paid a price for it.

Bjorn shakes his head as he watches his parents. While he respects Ragnar, he disagrees strongly with the decision to leave Lagertha out of the loop. That never should have happened. Now looking back, Bjorn thinks Ragnar was trying to be deliberately hurtful. And it angers him more than a little. As their son, he has a level of understanding regarding their relationship that few are privy too.

No one had ever asked his opinion on these matters, and he has never offered it. But he has seen this long running fight from both sides, and Bjorn believes while Ragnar carries slightly more of the blame, his mother is not at all innocent either.

If he were to speak freely, he would tell his father that it was a mistake—not necessarily to bed Aslaug—now that he is a man, he knows what drove Ragnar to do it—but that the mistake was trying to make her Lagertha’s equal, and trying to force his mother into accepting it. Bjorn knows despite being hurt, she had been willing to try to make it work, until Ragnar backed her into a corner and she felt she had no other alternative than to leave.

Going with her was the only logical thing Bjorn could do—he took up the mantle of her protector, a role his father abdicated. He did exactly what Ragnar had raised him to do—to protect his mother. But he could not protect her from everything, like her second husband. The idea to return to Kattegat had been his, and he could see that his mother wanted to go home too. Gods knows she gave Ragnar every opportunity. But his father kept blowing it. Over, and over again.

To this day Bjorn does not know if Ragnar was consciously sabotaging himself. But he does know one thing for certain—that Ragnar never stopped loving Lagertha. He even built a house for her. Bjorn had found him one day, drunk off his ass at the beach, sitting next to a house that looked exactly like the one they had lived in as a family years ago. It was then that Ragnar had told his son of his plans, and of his dreams to bring Lagertha back home and his desire to live with her, as it once was.

For a while, it had appeared to be working, and during another trip to England, his mother had come to talk to him about the possibility of it—no commitments--but it had let Bjorn know that they had been close. Very, very close. Until the night Ragnar became King.

If Bjorn were to draw a map of Ragnar and Lagertha’s relationship, he would go back to the moment in the great hall.  The moment he saw them, clinging together alone save for the body of a dead King Horik. He had watched his father cry—heavy, deep sobs full of regrets—and he had watched as Lagertha comforted him. He left when they started having sex, realizing the intensity of this private time.

He knows exactly what happened. Neither ever told him, but he could make a highly educated guess. Her extended stay in Kattegat. The sickness in the morning. He knew damned well what was up. Because shortly after is when Lagertha began pulling away from Ragnar, and from him too. It had been a mistake—not to try, but to give up. And Lagertha herself gave up on trying to be a family again, likely because she had felt there was no point. And it’s here that he still resents his father for making her feel that way. For pressuring her on the issue and for leaving her when she couldn’t do it. Not because she didn’t want to, but because something in her body wouldn’t allow it to happen.

There’s something wet on his face. It tastes salty. The ocean is splashing up around them, tiny droplets landing on his face. It is good. Quickly, he wipes them away.

Bjorn knows what she did in England with King Ecbert—and while he still holds his tongue on that one, he thinks it is what ultimately set Ragnar off, triggering this last series of unfortunate events into motion. And now, here they are: two people still fighting the same fight they’ve been in now since he was 14 years old. Twelve years and counting.

When he was a child he wanted to be exactly like them. Strong like his father, brave like his mother. Now as an adult, he wouldn’t trade places with them for the world.  A look at the back of the boat sees Ragnar’s head is nestled in Lagertha’s lap. His mother is looking at something only she can see across the ocean.

So wide, these waters are. So deep. So many, many waters.

.

.

The shock of him being alive was quickly eclipsed by a searing anger that has held her in its grip and has not let go. Though she is nursing him, she has never felt so strong a desire to kill him, to drown him in the sea. It would be so easy, she thinks.  

They have been angry with one another before. But not even the worst fights has ever made her feel like this. She feels violated. Never has she felt so betrayed, so hurt, and so completely debased.

When Ragnar wakes it is not Bjorn, but Lagertha who hovers above him. He blinks, wincing against the sun, and moves to speak, but no words come out.

“I wonder if you ever loved me, as you claimed?” she says quietly staring down at him. “What kind of man claims to love a woman, but does everything in his power to show otherwise?”

She doesn’t allow him to answer. “I will tell you what kind of man,” she leans down, stroking his head gently, but every word sharp like a dagger to his heart. Her voice is low, and only he can hear.

 “A cowardly man. A foolish man. A prideful man. A _jealous_ man. A _weak_ man. Is that the kind of man you are, Ragnar Lothbrok?”

He shakes his head back and forth.

 “You _raped_ me. You are _worse_ than Sigvard ever was. He may have battered my body, but _you_ have _abused_ my heart.”

He tries to reach for her hand, but she swats it down. Instead she leans in close and hisses into his ear. Her words are laced with venom.

“I hate you! You are _unworthy_ of _death_.”

The boat rocks slowly on the waves.

He is the father of her son, a son that has made them both proud. But he is also the man who has brought her the worst hurt she has ever known.

 She shakes her head. How much time has she wasted? What could she have done differently? Short of making a different choice, choosing a different man? Ragnar’s abuse has left scars on her heart. Scars that will never heal.

They are true equals now. Equals in their misery.

“You are looking old.”  Her fingers are tracing the circles under his eyes, the tattoos on his shaved head.

“But you still look so young…and beautiful,” Ragnar rasps with as much of his strength that he can gather.

“Our farm…” he whispers. But Lagertha looks away and out across the ocean.

“Our farm _burned_.”

Bjorn is hovering anxiously nearby, eyeing them both.

Lagertha beckons him closer. He has always had an expressive face, and her son cannot hide his the worry now. He is not ready to let his father go. His eyes dart from Ragnar, to her, and back. Questioning. He comes to settle by her side.

 “Do not worry for me, Bjorn,” Lagertha says to her son.

“I can’t help it mother. I worry that if father leaves, so will you.”

It touches her. “Why do you think that?”

 “Because you are bound to each other. Where father goes you have always followed. So why would you not leave me to go with him to Valhalla now?”

Ragnar has fallen asleep again as the boat continues to rock side to side.

“He may die,” she concedes looking past Bjorn and toward the current Earl of Hedeby sitting in the front of the boat.

  _“But I am just getting started.”_

And she is.

Kalf is sitting near the front of the boat, stealing looks at the three people in the back.

He longs to be with Lagertha. He hopes that in the field of battle he has shown her that he is worthy of her. He imagines it is him who his near death, and she who is nursing him.  It would be easier, he thinks, if Ragnar were to die. The competition for Lagertha’s heart would be no contest.

Ragnar Lothbrok is a great man. And Lagertha is a great woman. Kalf wants to be a great man and he needs such a woman by his side. In this he is resolved. He will give her back half the earldom. They will rule it together. He knows this is what she desires, and she will love him for it.

**-xxx-**

Her husband is near death, and yet, she is not worried. In fact Aslaug is almost…pleased. Bjorn and the men carry Ragnar’s body into the house as Lagertha (always Lagertha) begins to follow, but Aslaug steps in the way, blocking the other woman’s path.

“Please,” she says laying a hand on the arm of Ragnar’s _ex_ -wife. “Let me tend him. He is _my_ husband. _My_ responsibility.”

“Of _course he is_ , Queen Aslaug.” Lagertha says it in a way that makes Aslaug look at her a long moment. Lagertha walks away.

 _Finally_ she thinks _._ It has only taken 12 years. There are no happy endings. Aslaug does not care what happened between Ragnar and Lagertha in Paris. What she knows is that whatever bond has kept them together all this time has been broken apart. Lagertha has always been Ragnar’s weakness and his strength. Now, it is she who holds power over him. She looks down at his prone body, and she smiles, but it’s a different sort of smile now. One of predator lording over its pray. She literally holds his life in her hands. Theirs is a society built on revenge, and now is a good time to get hers.

And the seer has already told her. One day a woman will rule Kattegat.

**-xxx-**

Lagertha sees Kalf off to Hedeby, telling him that she will follow in a month. She needs the time to wrap up all of her affairs before leaving Kattegat a second time. She is folding the last of her things when there is a knock at the door. Bjorn.

“So, you are leaving again,” he says, his voice stern, but his eyes sad.

“Yes. I’ve had an offer, and I am going to take it,” she tells him as he steps inside and comes to hug her.

 She holds him close.

“I thought you should know…father is awake,” he tells her hesitantly.

She closes her eyes and waits to feel something…but there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. In the past, there has always been something when she thinks of Ragnar.  Heat between her legs, a racing heart. Trembling hands, butterflies in her stomach. There’s been anger. There’s been hurt. Pain. Rage.  Sometimes she has felt all of these things at the same time.  But right now, at the news that Ragnar is awake, that he is _alive_ , she feels…nothing.

 She is completely numb.

“Good for him,” she says evenly. “Give Aslaug and your brothers my best.”

She takes the last of her things and locks her house.

 Bjorn watches his mother mount her horse and leave. He remembers clearly what happened in Paris. And he understands that right now, when it comes to his father, Lagertha simply has no more fucks to give.

 She is not the only one.

Bjorn’s own patience with Ragnar has run out. He has seen how his father treated his mother. He has seen her give and give and give of herself, to get absolutely nothing in return. All Ragnar has done is taken from her. Her heart and her body—she is barely escaping with her soul still intact. Bjorn realizes that it has been Lagertha that has made Ragnar great. It was he and his mother who saved Ragnar from Jarl Borg. Even before that, she had saved Ragnar’s life in battle. It is a story he has heard countless times.

When Ragnar needed a new ally to sail west—it was Lagertha who came to his side, and when it was time to kill King Horik, it was his mother who killed Brunhild. She had manned the settlement in Wessex, growing it quickly and making it prosperous.

She has _killed_ for Ragnar, and yet what has Ragnar ever done for her? From where Bjorn sits, it really looks like nothing—except fuck his mother, get her pregnant, and abandon his family.  He cannot fault Lagertha for leaving again. There’s nothing for her in Kattegat.

He has heard Ragnar profess love to her, even to the point of tears. But he has seen his father also cheat on her, belittle her, demean her. Bjorn believes Ragnar cares only for himself.

And so, days later, as they sit on the docks cleaning the boats, Bjorn tells his father how he really feels. It’s only the second time that he’s done this. The first was when he was a child, watching as his family fell apart because his father couldn’t keep himself in his pants with Aslaug.

He tells Ragnar the truth. He tells him that he was a shit father. And a shit husband. And he means it. Bjorn tells Ragnar that he abandoned them when they needed him the most.

“If you remember, your mother left me. _You_ left me,” Ragnar snaps back.

_You left first._

They stew in silence, each man furiously scrubbing their respective end of the stern of the boat.

 “It is not easy being a father. It is even harder being a husband. Maybe I have failed at both. No—I have definitely failed at being a husband.”

It is a weak statement. And Bjorn doesn’t say anything, he just sighs and continues cleaning. Ragnar may be a good father to his other sons. But when it comes to him…

“I want to go inland to test myself,” he tells Ragnar later on. “Because _you_ don’t think I can survive.”

He needs to get out of Kattegat. Away from Ragnar, away from his own problems. He needs time to think things through, to make his own choices, to find his own path and to get out of the shadow of Ragnar Lothbrok.

But as Ragnar watches his son depart, he is fearful. He nearly lost Bjorn once, and he does not know whether he will survive if Bjorn does not come back. So when Aslaug comments that he may never see his son again, he is startled and scared.

“Have you seen something?” He asks worriedly.

“No,” she says.

“Then why would you say something like that?” He snaps.

She looks at him with confusion in her eyes. His are the fears of an aging and paranoid man.

The winter is cold and bitter.

.

.

He sits daily outside on his porch, staring at Floki with dispassionate eyes. Floki has been chained in the town square—a punishment designed for misery and humiliation. The two of them lock eyes. Misery. At least this they still have in common.

But it is only once Floki escapes that he goes to see Floki’s wife, Helga. And it is only then, that he realizes the damage that he has brought to those who have loved him.  Helga and Floki’s daughter is dead.

The child didn’t get to say goodbye to her father.

And it is only then that some of Ragnar’s anger fades to sadness and regret.  He remembers his own daughter, Gyda. And how he too didn’t get to say goodbye.

When Floki is recaptured Ragnar offers his _friend_ a second chance to make amends, and to tell the truth. Floki spits at him instead.

And so Ragnar tells him.

“You made me suffer. And I will make you suffer as well.” He taunts Floki with a smile, but he is seething.  Aslaug ignites his rage.

“All he did was kill a Christian. What did he do that was so wrong?”

It is the wrong thing for her to say. And the wrong time for her to say it.

“It is about loyalty!” He yells, striking her across the face, and sending her staggering.

“And trust!” The second blow knocks her to the ground. He feels no remorse. No regret as he looks down at his wife, hating her fully in that moment.

“Something _you_ don’t understand,” he says, and walks away.

But Aslaug calls after him.

“You wouldn’t _dare_ hit Lagertha!  So if _this_ makes you feel like a man, so be it. But you don’t _own_ me. Nor will you _ever_ touch me again.”

She spits at his back.

It’s funny, this demand of loyalty and trust from a man who has never given it to those he claimed were friends, and family.

His body isn’t healing as fast as it used to, and he’s still in pain. But he stops to help Helga dig a grave for her daughter.  And he thinks that when Lagertha sent off Gyda, she’d had to do it alone.

 _These_ are the things that begin to creep further and further to the forefront of his mind. His thoughts are increasingly laced with regrets.

Ragnar has no friends. He has no one to talk to. No one to keep the wolves in the shadows in his mind. Aslaug hates him. Bjorn is abandoning him. Lagertha has left him. Athelstan is dead, Floki and Rollo have betrayed him. Arne, Torstein, Leif… all long gone. He is lonely and he is alone.  And there is nowhere for him to go.

He fantasizes about death, what it would be like, _feel_ like, and sometimes he considers just ending it, or killing everyone around him. Death is seducing him, constantly on his mind and he thinks about varying ways to do it, by water, or by rope, or cliff, poison…perhaps a sword or an axe. The blood would be warm, running down out of his body, and with it, all of his pain would go away…

He hates his wife. He hates his life…hate’s what he’s become.

He wants nothing more than to escape, but he is trapped.

So when he sees a new face in his household, he is intrigued. She is different. She is new. There is something mysterious about her, and he wants to know what it is. This, he thinks, could be a beneficial distraction. He learns her name. Yidu. And she is from a place called China. And she does something wonderful. She gives him medicine. And slowly, blessedly, his mental pain begins to go away. And the tumult in his mind begins to ease. And she’s good for something else, too. Because Lagertha isn’t here. And Aslaug won’t touch him. But Yidu doesn’t seem to mind.

He makes use of her body, and her medicine in the home he had built for his wife. But Lagertha had never stayed more than one night here with him, and now what was once a monument to his love for her has become the physical manifestation of a troubled mind, filled with snakes, and his rats, and other crawling things.

This is what escape feels like, he thinks. With Yidu he is not a king. Just a man, and there are no responsibilities, no obligations or decisions to be made.

What Ragnar doesn’t realize is that Yidu isn’t giving him medicine. She’s getting him high. And addicted. Because Yidu wants freedom. And she wants power. And she knows that Ragnar Lothbrok, king of the Northmen, can give her both. So she keeps his dick wet, and his mind weak, because now _she_ is the one with the power over a king.

.

.

Finally. Finally Aslaug is free of him. She has given Ragnar someone with whom he can talk, and brood and mope with—a slave. Someone to share in his misery and pity party. Someone for him to fuck as he pleases. Aslaug no longer has to pretend anymore. She no longer has to care. And so she tells him that he is free to have the slave girl, and that no, she will not be jealous. And yes, that it is what she wants, because Ragnar Lothbrok is no longer the man he was, and now her sole focus is ensuring that it will be _her_ sons that will succeed him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

It has been over a year. More than a year since the last raid on Paris, a year since she last set foot in Kattegat, and a year since Kalf first made love to her. It has been a long time since she has had such a beautiful, wonderful year **.** The winter is long, and it is cold, but Kalf’s body keeps her warm, and he does wonderful things to it. He makes her feel _wanted_ , desired in a way that she hasn’t felt since she was young.

His hands aren’t rough and calloused like the one’s she’s used to. They are still soft in the palms, and she likes the way Kalf jumps when she takes her fingers and runs them on the inside of his hands. It is so different, so wonderful…she wishes it could stay this way forever.

Lagertha brushes the thought away, and focuses on the task at hand…or rather, the one i _n_ her hand. The task attached to a beautiful man, a man who, if this were another life, she could say she loved.

 He pulls her down into a kiss as she gently strokes him. He moans against her lips, and he trembles against her touch. She smiles and bites her lips relishing the control that she has over his pleasure.

And this is how they spend the winter. Locked inside, staying warm by making love.

 But she can’t fully give herself over to him. Because it’s not perfect. She knows he is conspiring with King Horik’s son, to kill Bjorn. She has heard them talking. Kalf is no longer sure of this plan, but Erlendur is pushing, pushing. Lagertha knows that Bjorn has gone off into the interior. She was aware of his plan. So she will love Kalf as much as she can, for as long as she can. Until she can love him no more.

The winter has gone, and it is spring. And she is sick. So very, very sick. She has not been this sick since…

It is like lightening has struck her.

It cannot possibly be true…this cannot be real. The gods said it was impossible…

But the evidence of it is there.

Lagertha is pregnant. Pregnant. And there, in that moment of discovery, in what should have been her happiest moment, she is suddenly stricken with grief, because she knows that their time is up.

 She tells Kalf one day as they walk along the grounds. The flowers and trees are blooming, and warriors are training around them. It’s a gorgeous day, and he is so happy with the news that he asks her to marry him.

She agrees, but there’s a pang in her heart, because he will soon die.  And either he doesn’t know, or he doesn’t believe she will keep her promise. She says yes because she truly adores Kalf. She says yes because she wants, for just a moment, to stand in the sun and make believe that there’s a man in this world who loves her more than he loves himself. But she knows that man is not Kalf, if he will plot to kill her last child, and she knows that Kalf doesn’t really respect her if he honestly believes she doesn’t know this.

When he comes to see her in her wedding dress, the flowers in her hair, he is taken. Kalf comes up to kiss her, and she returns the kiss with as much of her heart that she can muster. She just wants to feel him one last time…before she removes the knife from the sleeve of her dress, and rams it through his stomach.

 He looks at her with love and resignation in his eyes. And she holds on to his lips for as long as she can, before he falls to the floor.

Lagertha never makes promises she doesn’t keep. And she promised Kalf in Paris that one day she would kill him. She just didn’t think it would be so soon.

Word comes soon after that Ragnar will sail for Paris again. Hedeby and Kattegat are allies, and she will honor the agreement Kalf made with her ex-husband. This also means that she will soon have to face _him_ , again.

She is conflicted.

_The gods are tired. They are so very, very tired of seeing this same cycle turn again. Odin and Frigg had hoped against hope that Ragnar and Lagertha could make it. But perhaps it is Frigg and Odin, who have failed. Maybe they made their children too much alike—a man and a woman meant to match and mirror each other. Lagertha seems hell-bent on her revenge, and Ragnar too, for his. They are riding closer and closer to the flame, and the gods see, but they cannot intervene. Odin holds Frigg in his arms, as she cries for their love. They have finally reached a place of forgiveness. Perhaps their children will too._

**-xxx-**

The strong arms of Bjorn greet her upon her arrival in Kattegat, and she takes a step back to admire her son. He has the bearing of experience and authority, more sure of himself. He has grown wiser now. He is less hard than he was when he came to Hedeby, but not by much.

“Mother,” he says, “I am pleased you are here. Where is Earl Kalf?” she looks her son in the eye and her smile fades.

“Kalf is dead. And Earl Ingstad has been restored.”

He looks at her a moment, and nods in understanding. He doesn’t have to ask how, he already knows. Kalf is the second husband his mother has killed. He briefly wonders if she’s aiming for a third.  He wishes for a moment that Lagertha can find a person to make her happy. But then he remembers what Ragnar said. “Who told you, you should be happy?”

“Come, let me take you to Ragnar,” he says wrapping a protective arm across her back and guiding her through the city to the great hall where the raiding party has assembled. What he does not tell her is that Ragnar has been acting strangely lately. That he has almost disappeared. That when Bjorn has seen him, it is almost as if Ragnar is a shadow.

There is a cheer as she enters the hall, and just as they have always done, women, men and girls surround her, all excited to meet the great shield-maiden Lagertha, their native daughter, back in Kattegat once again. This is her home. Her people. And she loves them, too.

 She pays her respects to Aslaug, and gets only a slight nod in return. But she brushes it off. They have only ever tolerated one another. And there is no need to pretend anymore.

The hall is alive with talk and music and laughter, but she does not feel like taking part in it. What she wants to do is return to her mountain home, and await the sound of the horns to board the ships. This is a raid unlike the others. It is strictly business. The honoring of an alliance between two leaders.

Lagertha smiles and nods, offering hugs and handshakes as she makes her way through the crowd. She has chosen for the occasion a red dress, and a soft white bear fur that covers her shoulders. Her hair is braided up, and long earrings dangle from her ears. It is power that she projects. A horn of ale is placed in her hands and she gives it up to someone else as she continues making her way toward a far wall, slipping into the shadows of the firelight in order to watch the scene from a distance.  It is always hard to be in this place, this hall of memories. It was her home once, too.

She beats back the thoughts. Her condition is making her sentimental. And this is no time for feelings. But as she prepares to move, an arm snakes around her waist, and she is pulled back against a hard, firm body. She recognizes his scent, of the ocean and the sand, and she recognizes his hands, rough and calloused, the hands of a farmer. Of a husband. She is still.

Ragnar’s breath is hot on her neck as his hand trails down the side of her body, and across her stomach, coming to rest on her belly. They stay there.

“Earl Ingstad,” he says, his voice more rough than she remembers.  

“Yes, King Ragnar. Earl Ingstad.”

“So, you are truly an earl.”

“Yes, we are equal now.”

They are familiar words, from a time that feels so long ago. But they are different this time. Filled with questions and hidden meaning. Lagertha tries to face him, but he’s holding her tight, and he won’t let her go.

He moves his lips alongside the curve of her neck and back against her ear, and she shudders at the sensation. Ragnar knows all of her spots, the places she is the most sensitive. Lagertha bites her lip, refusing to give in to the sudden rush of lust that wells up inside her. It is an involuntary response, made from years of conditioning. Ragnar’s hands rest against her stomach, tracing slow circles around her belly before stilling there.  She knows what he is feeling. The slight roundness. The firmness.

“You’re still so beautiful,” he whispers before releasing her and slipping away. There’s a yearning in his voice that cuts straight through her. She has never seen him like this. Come to think of it, she didn’t actually _see_ him at all. For the first time, she feels a sense of foreboding about this raid.

And that night, she dreams of their farm.

**-xxx-**

Ragnar does not know what this “medicine” is but he is finding he cannot function without it.

They have reached the shores of Frankia and made camp. And news of their arrival will soon reach Paris.

He has spent the journey watching Lagertha’s boat, trying to determine what is in her mind. She has not spoken two words to him. But when he first saw her in Kattegat, he knew. And now he wants to know _why._

He counts the losses. Two so far, and it appears to him she’s trying to make it three.

Lagertha is sitting off by herself near the camp sharpening an axe. He moves to sit beside her, and he does not waste words.

 “Help me understand why you are here fighting instead of trying to keep your baby safe.” She looks at him silently and takes another swipe at the axe blade. It’s a threat he chooses to ignore.

“You’ve never spoken to me about Kalf’s death. It must have broken your heart.” It is an attempt to get her to open up to him, to talk to him, and for him to talk to her and tell her everything—to tell her how much he needs her, how much he has missed her and how much he regrets these past two years. But it does not work.

“Of course it didn’t,” she says to him, expressionless. “My heart was broken a long time ago.”

That one is for him.

He’s toying with something dangerous.

“I still don’t understand why you’re willing to risk your baby’s life in battle?” It comes out protective. Territorial. Not at all what he meant, but exactly what he feels.  

“Who are you to talk? I’m not your _wife_.” It is the end of the conversation. He forfeited any authority he had over her a long time ago.

But from the moment he saw her enter his hall, and touched her growing belly, he wanted it. He wants this child. Even if it is from another man, it doesn’t matter. His wife has lost so much, and he wants the child for her. He thinks about whether he should tell her this, promise her that he will be there for it and for her if she just tries.

He looks at Lagertha but she refuses to acknowledge him anymore. Resigned, he gets up and goes elsewhere, frustrated with her, but more so with himself. It's clear he's lost all influence with his ex-wife and he knows arguing would be a useless endeavor. She has shut him out--right when all he wants to be is let back in. He wonders what she would say if he told her that he needed her right now. Needed her to balance his mind, to save him from himself. 

Later, as they ride up the Seine River, Ragnar stares off the side of the boat, toward the beach. He blinks, not believing his sight. It is Lagertha, beckoning him from shore. She is younger, her clothes those of the simple farmers they had been back then. Her hair is long and braided, and he sees his children! Small as they once were. There is Bjorn, and Gyda! And standing off to the side is Athelstan.

His family.

His beautiful family…they are calling him home. He reaches out a hand to them and blinks again. But when his eyes open, they are gone, and all he sees is sand and an empty beach.

Ragnar has won a kingdom, wealth, power and fame. And he has sacrificed his family and his soul.

He needs more of Yidu’s medicine, but she is refusing to give it.

-xxx-

This reminds him of how he railed at Bjorn for allowing Porunn to fight alongside them in Wessex while pregnant. His son’s first wife was nearly killed. He had slapped Bjorn and chided his son for his foolishness, for failing to protect his wife and his unborn child.

It does not escape him the irony of the situation now that the roles are reversed.

They have strategized. Planned. They will take boats on the river, and attack from the shore. Rollo will not see it coming.

 Lagertha has volunteered to lead the ground party, and Ragnar moves to object but one icy glare from her silences him, and it is agreed. She will lead the group.  

He forces his hands to stop twitching and approaches her, wrapping his arms around her and laying a hand on her stomach. For a moment, she relaxes into his embrace, and the feel of her softness, her warmth, emboldens him. He can feel her stomach is firm, and becoming round, and Ragnar remembers how he has always loved the way she is when she is with child. He presses against her back, letting her feel his desire.

At least that part of him is still working. 

“Forgive me for caring, but you shouldn’t fight tomorrow,” he says, his voice low in her ear.  Lagertha allows him a moment of holding before pulling away and turning to face him.

 “Let me _explain_ something to you,” she says.

“A long time ago, the seer prophesized I would never have another child. If he’s right, then it doesn’t matter what I do.”

The seer. Always the seer. His jaw twitches and he grits his teeth. 

“Well then,” he says, hurt. “You’re certainly doing everything in your power to prove the seer right.” he reaches again for her belly but she swats his hand. She is studying his face, eyebrows furrowed, but she does not say anything as she walks away.

He is angry, and looks for something to throw—tossing the oranges on the table to the ground. That child growing in her should have been _his_. He is failing to do his basic duty as her husband--to protect her and her child.  And there is nothing he can do about it.

Two days later, they suffer their first major defeat at Rollo’s hands. Rollo has turned traitor, siding with the Franks, and leading their fleet into a trap. Their losses are great.

And Lagertha is no longer angry at Ragnar, she is now worried for him. She, Ragnar and Rollo. They are the last of their generation. They are the last of their friends. And it pains her to see the brothers on opposite sides again. Rollo has betrayed Ragnar before, but this time she knows there is no coming back, for either of them. Ragnar is too blinded by rage and revenge and he has led them into crippling defeat after defeat. Nearly a third of their ships are gone. So many warriors dead and when they make it back to camp, they find it destroyed.

She is shocked at the scope and scale of the ruin, but when she sees Ragnar run by, calling for his sons, she’s gripped by something more: fear. When Ubbe and Hvitserk appear out of the woods with Yidu, she is relieved. If anything were to happen to those children…

Now she is having to bury good warriors, women and men. And it is all Ragnar’s fault. He is acting strangely, erratically. He is trying to get close to her at one moment, and the next, he is screaming at his slave for “medicine”.

What is this “medicine” he keeps calling for?

Her ex-husband is like a caged wild animal backed into a corner. She has watched him as he paces in his tent, muttering to himself, gesturing wildly. It is unnerving, and it makes her pity him.  A part of her wants to go him, comfort him, but something within her keeps her back. Paris.

She is not there as Ragnar grabs Yidu.

She does not see the kids slip off.

She does not witness Ragnar drown Yidu in the ocean, as his children watch their father commit a second murder.

 And if she were there, she would know how exactly how far Ragnar has fallen.

They must make camp elsewhere. And so they gather what remains of their destroyed things, and get back into their boats again. They have new allies this journey. But they are not loyal. King Harold and his brother Halfdan speak of the gods deserting them, and she jumps to Ragnar’s defense. But it is not their fault. They have simply spoken aloud what she and everyone else is thinking.

This loss has weakened Ragnar as a leader, and it has harmed the name Lothbrok, a name she still carries, and so does her son, and she is obligated by blood to defend that name.

There is a sharp pain in her stomach. But she ignores it. She has to be strong for her ex-husband and for her son. Their legacy is at risk, and if they are to get through this, it will have to be together. The boats begin to slow down and she looks around and up…to the cliffs that surround them.

The horns sound.

 Oh no.

She knows exactly what Ragnar is thinking before he jumps off the boats and onto the rocks. They are going to lift the boats. There’s another pain in her stomach—it hurts worse than the last one.

She ignores it. Tears are wasted on the dead.

With resigned determination, she joins the rest of them in hauling the boats up the cliffs, and through the forest. Ignoring the increasing frequency and intensity of the pain in her stomach. The longer they haul, the more it hurts.

They have been in Paris for three months so far. And she is now heavily and visibly pregnant. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

He’s been trying to get her to stop. But she won’t. She keeps hauling in the line with everyone else and she won’t hear anything he has to say. This goes on for days, and as the labor intensifies, he can tell its draining her. But Lagertha is stubborn and won’t listen to reason. In the third week of this effort, Ragnar waits until nightfall, and goes to her tent. He walks by her shield maidens and they look at him, their King, in silent admiration as he enters Lagertha’s space. They allow him to pass as they whisper between themselves.

“They were married.”

“That’s Bjorn’s father.”

“King Ragnar and Earl Lagertha.”

“Legend.”

“Greatness.”

He finds her hard asleep on the ground surrounded by furs and blankets. She’s stripped down only in her tunic, her breathing deep and even. He doubts anything short of war will wake her. So he takes the opportunity and takes off his leathers, laying down beside her and touching her belly. He hasn’t gotten to feel it in months, and it’s bigger now, full and round and firm.

“Hello little one,” he whispers to the child inside. “You don’t know me. I am not your father. But…I love you. And your mother does too.”

He’s thinking about what else to say as he feels a tiny kick. And another. It fills him with a flood of emotions. His voice is shaky, his breathing uneven as he tries to whisper.

“Tell your beautiful mother that I love her…and that I am sorry. I have failed as a husband…and as a father. I wish I could be allowed to try again…with you.”

Lagertha moans in her sleep and turns over and he moves away slightly, waiting to see if she’ll wake up. But she doesn’t. So he lays down beside her, and like instinct, she snuggle against his chest for the warmth. They’ve laid like this many times. But he’s never lost the feeling of wonderment when she’s in his arms. Nor has he ever lost the raw desire that he’s always had for her. And it rises up fast at the feel of her body against his.

Slowly, carefully, he pulls her tunic up, and just as quietly he manages to pull himself out of his pants. If she wakes up, he knows she’ll kill him, but it wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

  _Lagertha is dreaming of their home on the beach. Something from  long ago. She’s still pregnant with Bjorn. Her husband is beside her, moving against her slowly, carefully as to not hurt her or the baby. He feels soo good inside and what he’s doing to her body makes her feel as if she’s flying. Ragnar kisses her neck and holds her as they make love…._

Her moans give him encouragement and he increases the urgency of the movement. Her eyes are still closed, and he knows she’s dreaming.

 _“Ragnar…”_ Fuck. She’s said his name and it sends a rush of lust down his body and into hers as he goes deeper, filling her in a way only he has ever been able to do. What he’s doing is wrong and he knows it. She’s made her preferences abundantly clear, but he’s ignoring it.  It’s sneaky and he knows it, but he can’t stop it, nor does he want to…

“I want you to have this child,” he whispers to her.

_I want you to have this child, Ragnar whispers in her ear as he increases the intensity of his thrusts. I want us to have many children. Bjorn is just the first._

_We will, she moans for him. I want you. I want your seed. I want you inside me, beside me always._

_I will never leave you, he groans into her back… they feel the climax approaching._

_I love you so much I could feed you the sky.”_

“I love you so much I could feed you the sky,” he whispers into her ear right as his climax hits causing his movements to become forceful, erratic as he begins to spill inside her. It wakes Lagertha, but by the time she realizes what’s happening, it’s too late—and her body is reacting the only way it knows how.

 She moans his name as she clenches around him milking his body, drawing him inside her and holding him there as she twitches involuntarily. He’s got his arms around her, holding her until she comes down, in a state of deliriousness and confusion, and intense feelings that she has no words for.

Their breathing is hitched, uneven. And it takes a while before they fall back into sync.

This was no dream.

Lagertha is quiet. She’s struggling to figure out how she feels about what he’s just done to her. It’s not worth it to ask why. The answer is abundantly clear. He’s been this way since they arrived in Paris. Since he figured out she’s pregnant. It’s the way he has always been with her when she’s with child and there’s conflict here because she cannot decide if she’s mad at him, or sad _for_ him.

Ragnar’s behavior has been erratic. Unstable. He’s off his game, and she’s already accepted the fact that this is likely to be their last raid together.

  “This is how the world ends,” she says to herself, resigned to their fate.  He moves against her, and she snuggles back for more warmth as he places kisses the back of her neck. And when she feels him stir again, she rolls onto her back, and invites him in because…she feels sorry for him.

It’s pity. For him.  Lagertha considers this an act of mercy for a desperate man. A man she used to love. A man she used to call husband.

They get one more, and this is it. She knows that, even if Ragnar doesn’t.

When he tries to come back the next night, the shield-maidens block his entrance. And Lagertha has gone back to hauling the boats acting as if nothing happened.

_._

_._

He’s resting on a chair, swatting at imaginary bugs, shivering, but not cold. What is this sickness that is taking over his body? He cannot take any more medicine. He needs what is left of it for battle. His mind jumps between Rollo, and Lagertha. Somewhere along this journey he has failed.

Bjorn comes to sit next to him and starts to speak, but before they can exchange words, a female scream tears through the camp. It sends a chill down Ragnar’s spine.

They rise as Bjorn’s lover Torvi rushes toward them, urging them come quickly.

It has been raining for three days and the tents are soaked. Father and son enter cautiously, and when he sees his wife, Ragnar is devastated.

Lagertha is on the ground, her hair and clothes soaked with sweat, her eyes red and swollen. The blankets around her are bloody.  He knows what has happened before she even begins to speak, and he sits down beside her and wraps his arms around her, holding her, trying to keep her strong for the both of them.

“I lost my child,” she says without emotion. She is in shock, her voice hoarse.  She is talking only to Bjorn, not looking at Ragnar.

“I knew I could never have another child. The seer told me a long time ago. But I was hoping I could beat the fates.”

He rocks her gently as Bjorn settles down next to his mother on the other side. She begins to sob into Ragnar’s chest, and those tears are too much for him. It is as if they are pulled from his own heart. He kisses her head and continues to rock her gently, stroking her head as Bjorn holds her hand. Both men try to stay strong, if only for her. But his façade is already weakened, and it breaks as his eyes fill with water.

“Shhh…” he whispers to her.

“It’s alright.”

After a moment, she regains her composure. “Go away,” she commands pushing them back. “Leave me alone.”

Father and son look at each other a moment. But they do not leave. They give her space, but not too much, staying by her side like guards to a queen.

Ragnar waits until her breathing slows down, and moves back in to wrap her up into his arms again. This time she lays her head in his chest, clearly exhausted. Ragnar gently strokes her hair, as she falls asleep.

 “I’m sorry,” he whispers in her ear. “I’m sorry for everything, my love.”

In this moment he realizes the depths and extent of his failure.

Maybe, if he had found the strength to wait… maybe now he would be a father again to a child that was made and conceived in love.

Maybe, if he had been a better man-- a better husband-- perhaps all of their children would be alive.

Perhaps if he had been home, instead of in England his unborn son would have lived. Or he would have at least had the chance to say goodbye.

Perhaps if he never went to Gotaland, his precious daughter Gyda would still be with them.

Perhaps if he’d have made a different choice in the face of Aslaug’s ultimatum, he would have seen that child too.

Three children. All gone.

He sees now that he was never there for Lagertha when she needed him the most.  But he is here now. It is the best he can do, and he is certain in this moment that it is nowhere near good enough. And it doesn’t make up for all the other times he abandoned her.

Athelstan’s words come back to him at that moment. And he remembers the story of Job.

“ _Job’s faith grew weak, and the test nearly killed him. Some would say he even failed the test. But whatever we may face, we must be firm in our faith.”_

As he looks down at the top of his wife's head Ragnar slowly comes to realize he has not been firm in his faith. In fact, he had stopped believing the moment they lost their first son. All of this, for that moment.  The depth and breadth of his failures as a man are revealed to him in their entirety. Every action. Every consequence. He sees it all clearly--the path that he has been on. And it is staggering.

He remembers Athelstan’s words on love, and King Solomon’s story—a man with so many wives, but only one true love.

So wise Athelstan was! And how foolish Ragnar has been to fail to understand the lesson until now.

All he wants is to go back. To try again. A second chance. He rocks her gently in his arms as he says a silent prayer to the gods to allow him to try again. To be a better man. A better father. A better husband. He has failed Lagertha. He has failed Aslaug. He has failed all of his sons, his daughter, and his unborn children. The grief and shame overwhelms him as his own tears begin to fall.

.

.

Bjorn watches them, torn between sadness for his mother, and anger toward his father **.** It hurts to see Lagertha in pain. He has rarely seen her shed a tear, and the few times it has happened, Ragnar has been the cause.

But the agony written so plainly and hauntingly across his father’s face is just as worse. There is death all around them, and he wonders whether Ragnar has been cursed, and if they are all cursed to follow him. All of this, from the beginning, has been Ragnar’s fault.

The hour is late, and the camp has gone quiet. It is just the three of them inside his mother’s tent. And Bjorn will not leave her. And he can tell that Ragnar is not going anywhere either.

His father has taken his mother into his arms, and she rests there asleep, at long last. Bjorn is lying at her feet, his eyes closed.

“I’m sorry,” he hears his father say quietly. And it angers him. “Sorry” is not good enough. It seems when it comes to his mother, all Ragnar can do is say “sorry”.

“Why do you do this to our family, Ragnar?” _Father_ , just doesn’t seem to fit at the moment.

Ragnar opens his eyes, staying still to not disturb Lagertha. He strokes her hair gently, but he does not answer. Bjorn shakes his head angrily.

“You have claimed you love Lagertha, but the only person you have ever loved is yourself. It has always been about what _you_ want. Not what _I_ want. Not what Lagertha _wanted_. YOU!” Bjorn’s voice is rising and catching himself, he lowers it, ignoring his father’s warning glare.

“You are a selfish bastard and for the first time, I am _ashamed_ to be your son.”

 “I loved your mother!” Ragnar yells. “I have always loved your mother and I have spent my life ensuring that she has been protected! Who are you to judge me? Everything I have done, I do for you and her!”

“Bullshit! You do it for yourself! Mother was right. We were happy where we were. Back on our farm. We were a _family_ then. And it was _you_ who ruined it all. Everything you touch is in ruin. Look around you, Ragnar! All of this is your doing. You have _failed_ us.”

There it is. The truth. His truth. Bjorn is angry. Angry at Ragnar for leaving them to struggle. Angry at Ragnar for making Lagertha feel she had no choice but to leave him and suffer alone. Angry because he knows Ragnar has continued to do everything he can to make her miserable simply because she refuses to go back to him.

“I was selfish,” Ragnar says quietly.

Bjorn turns away in disgust.

“I have made mistakes,” Ragnar says wearily, looking down at Lagertha. “So many, many mistakes that I did not know were such at the time. I have been a terrible husband,” he says, “…and a terrible father.” 

Bjorn is silent.

He turns around and lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, as his father mutters words to Lagertha only she can hear. He already knows what they are. Promises Ragnar has already broken. Confessions she’s likely heard before. Sorrows. Griefs. He hears only parts, as Ragnar speaks the name Gyda, his dead sister.

They are all broken people. He, Ragnar, and Lagertha. But they are his family. And all they have is each other.

“I regret, every day, that love has never been enough,” Ragnar says, and Bjorn is not sure whether those words are meant for him, his mother or the both of them.

His anger is on a low simmer, and now he just feels sorry for the old man. And that catches him. But it's true, and Bjorn wonders when he had first noticed that Ragnar has gotten _old_.

.

.

As the Lothbroks grieve over a lost child, in Kattegat, Aslaug is grieving over a lost love.

Harbard.

She was so happy when he returned. It was as if her heart had called him there, and he had said as much too. And for a moment, her sadness and despair and loneliness were lifted, and she was loved and made love to, once again. But that image was broken by her son. It is always the sons who look out for their mothers.

Sigurd discovered Harbard’s infidelity, and it was her son that guided his mother to Harbard, in a house, in a bed, with two other women.

It was the shame and sting of betrayal all over again. First Ragnar, and now Harbard.

 She had yelled at him, cursed his name, and finally threw him out of her house. And now, she is alone. Completely and totally alone. Even in her darkest time, even after Ragnar had slapped her, she had had some hope—hope for something better. That is what Harbard had given her. And now he has taken it away.

Aslaug wanders the streets of Kattegat, shaking and wet from the rain. It disguises her tears. But it cannot disguise her anguished cries. There she is: Kattegat’s queen, lying prostrate in the mud. And Ragnar’s grand-daughter, Siggy is dead. Forgotten and neglected. It is a merciful death. The gods have seen fit to spare the little girl from the sins of her family. It is not her fault.  

Death is coming back around.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

The boats have made it up the cliffs and through the forest and are now all back in the water, Their sails slowly being reassembled. It has taken six weeks, and the Northmen have now been on Frankish soil for nearly five months.

Bjorn goes to Ragnar’s tent to tell him the news. But when he enters he sees his father on his knees, slapping at imaginary bugs.

The evidence is there.

Ragnar is unwell, and Bjorn is worried. He becomes aware this is likely to be their last fight, and he starts to mentally prepare for the death of his father.  When he has to physically pull Ragnar up and watch him struggle into his armor, it is almost too much to stand. He steps over to help Ragnar dress himself, dismayed the king cannot do this for himself.  Finally, Ragnar is ready and they walk outside to see Lagertha waiting. Bjorn looks at his mother, telling her what he has seen in the silent language they share between themselves. Her face is set in understanding and resignation. She has seen Ragnar as well-- a ghost of the man he once was.

He has always been in danger from himself.

But they are family. And as a family they will rise or fall together. 

This is the last battlefield.

**-xxx-**

It is the last of his medicine. He takes it as he watches the Frankish ships advance on what remains of his fleet. It has been reinforced with new platforms to be used as floating battlefields and battering rams. He is ready. And when he sees his brother, outfitted in the clothing of the Franks, he is enraged.

"Look at you!" He yells at Rollo. "You look like a bitch!"

The sons of Odin fight until they lose all shields. Then their swords. Then their axes. And when those are gone, they use their fists to pummel each other, until both are broken and bleeding. They are fighting off years of staggering resentment and anger.

Ragnar wants to kill Rollo for the sins of the present, and for the past. He wants to kill him for lusting after Lagertha. And for betraying him to Jarl Borg. And for betraying him to the Franks. But Rollo is fighting for something more. For a new future for himself, and for his burgeoning family, and he will not allow Ragnar to take this away from him, as his brother has taken away everything else in Rollo’s life. Each blow he lands is punishment for Ragnar’s sins. For taking Lagertha. For taking Siggy. For leaving Rollo alone to suffer in his shadow.

Lagertha is battling for her life when she sees Ragnar fall from a blow. Her stomach jumps, and it is her instinct to go to him.  She is fighing her way toward him when she is struck; The searing heat of a sword through her chest sends her to the ground as everything begins to swirl and slowly fade to black.

Ragnar can only watch her fall as he is helpless to save her, and he manages to block a blow from Rollo as he screams to Bjorn:  “Get your mother!”

Before he can scramble to his feet, he is caught by a hook in his arm and snatched overboard.

The brothers are separated, and nothing is finished yet.

And when he himself is pulled into a boat as his fleet retreats, he is screaming at Rollo, vowing to kill him. And he stays like that, screaming and cursing everyone and everything—and frightening everyone who remains around him.

Bjorn hovers over his mother, trying to nurse her wounds as he watches Ragnar curse at the Frankish fleet. He watches until Ragnar stumbles backward, and slumps to the ground, finally tired. And he watches as his father slowly comes back to himself, and they meet eyes. Bjorn looks at Lagertha, drawing Ragnar’s gaze to her as well, and Ragnar scrambles over to them.

“No…”

There’s an agony there, real grief, and Bjorn steps away as Ragnar gathers Lagertha in his arms. This is the most emotional he has ever seen his father, and it scares him as Ragnar cries, and moans and laments.

“No..No..no no no no nooo….”

“My wife…my wife stay…please stay…I need you to stay with me…don’t leave me, please don’t leave me…!”

It is the wail of a wounded animal, of a wolf who has been lost its mate. Bjorn,  Floki, Halfdan and Harold stand back and watch the great king mourn for his shield-maiden, who tried to save him for the third time.

Floki and Bjorn are worried. 

Halfdan and Harald stare in both fright and awe--amazed at the greatness of a man, who can mourn and love a woman so fully. Harold remembers his own grief at being rejected. He sees Ragnar as an equal for the first time, not an adversary. There are times for war, and there are times for love.

They lower their heads in respect.

Bjorn holds Ragnar back  from Lagertha once the boats regroup on shore. And Floki picks her up and carries her to away as Torvi and Helga rush to Lagertha’s side.  Ragnar retreats into his tent, into darkness, leaving Bjorn to care for Ubbe and Hvitserk. He can see the boys are frightened though they are attempting to be strong.

"What is happening, Bjorn? Where is father?" Ubbe asks, his eyes darting to Ragnar's tent and to Bjorn. Hvitserk stands close to his brother trying to be brave.

"We have been defeated," he tells them. "My mother..." he stops, swallowing hard.

"Earl Lagertha is injured. Ragnar is..." Is what? How does he explain this to children?

Ubbe nods in understanding and Bjorn realizes Ubbe is far wiser than a child of his age should be. They remind Bjorn of himself at their age--witnessing things no child should ever have to see.  He takes his brothers to his own tent and settles them there for the night before leaving again to find Ragnar.

He finds him in the forest, sitting by a large tree rocking back and forth, hands around his knees with tears running down his face. Bjorn remembers when he was young and afraid, when his father would comfort him at night. But now it is his turn to comfort his father, to try and hold what remains of Ragnar’s sanity together. He puts an arm around Ragnar, and sits beside him doubting his father even realizes he is there. Bjorn looks off into the distance, his thoughts dark and clouded. He could not save his father. And he could not save his mother.

He has never been able to save them from themselves.  

 There is no coming back from this.

The King has fallen.

**-XXX-**

Death. And loss. All around. Above him, below him. His beloved Lagertha, wounded and sick. The tides have changed. And it is now he and Bjorn that take turns nursing his injured wife on the long journey home. Should she die, it will be his fault. And his son will never forgive him.

Have the gods not made her suffer enough? And as for the gods…he curses them all. Ragnar doubts, he questions. Defeat has brought about all the demons he’s fought to keep at bay, and now, here they are. And there is no more medicine.

 There will be no victory feast, for he, the great King Ragnar, is great no more. He is tired of ruling. Tired of being King. He wants to be rid of it all.

But first…he must purge his mind and his body of the poison Yidu has fed him.

He leans down one more time to kiss Lagertha’s lips, savoring the salty taste of the ocean on them. He has loved and dreamed of this woman. She is all he has ever wanted, and he is devastated at the thought of her loss. He cannot be there should she die. He cannot know. If she goes, he _will_ follow her and it would be a cowardly death. Much has been damaged. There are things he must face alone.

The ride home makes things clear to him. And when the boats dock, he starts walking away. And he does not stop.

.

.

Lagertha awakens in her bed. In Hedeby. Her last memory had been of the battlefield in Paris. She sits up, a pain shooting in her shoulder and it pushes her back down. She moans.  

At the sound of her voice, Bjorn appears.

“Mother,” he says sitting on the foot of her bed. “You’re awake.”

 She smiles faintly and wraps her hand around his.

“It seems the gods have spared me,” she says. Her voice is rough and her throat is dry.

 Bjorn leaves and comes back with a cup of water.

“How long have I been ill?” She asks.

“It has been about two weeks,” he says.

“And what has happened in that time?”

Even now, she can read her son’s face. And she knows something is wrong.

“Is it Kattegat? The children—your brothers?” She asks, alarmed.

He shakes his head.

“No, he says. Kattegat is fine. The sons of Ragnar are fine. Aslaug is in charge, but…”

“But what?”

“No one has seen Ragnar since our return. He has gone.”

Gone.

Ragnar is gone.

She doesn’t understand.

“Is he dead?” She feels if he were, she would have known, she would have _felt_ something.

Bjorn shakes his head.

“I do not think so. Back in Paris, he said he was…tired. I think he has just walked away.”

She closes her eyes, and drifts off to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

 Ragnar watches the compound from the hill at a distance. The women are training and to his wise eyes, he can see his wife is preparing an army.

Lagertha is preparing for war.

She is fulfilling a promise made long ago. He knows her well. And he also knows that with no man, and an earldom of her own, this is her moment. It has been nearly 10 years since he saw her last: bloodied and dying. Had she left him that day, he would have felt it. And the knowledge that she did not, coupled with the memories of his children, have been what has kept him living--even when he should have died. Yet, his days are numbered. And he has come back to make amends to the ones he has hurt the most.

He has already seen his children. Bjorn’s beard is turning gray. And he regrets having missed the rest of them grow into men. He left Bjorn to raise his brothers, and in a private moment, he tells his eldest son that he did a good job. Now he must talk to Bjorn's mother...say the things he should have said long ago. And ask her for passage to England, though he does not believe for a moment that she will go with him.

It is abundantly clear his wife has other plans. And he believes he knows what those plans are.

With labored steps, Ragnar begins to walk down to the compound, unsure of what or who may greet him.

**-xxx-**

She knew he was back a week ago. And she has been waiting, unsure of her feelings, of what she will say or do when he comes. Because Ragnar Lothbrok always comes for her.

And now, here they sit, across from each other by the fire.  Lagertha studies his face intently.

He is so much older than he was, with dark circles under his eyes. Fine lines have appeared on his head, his tattoos now faded, against his skin.  His clothes are worn and tattered. There’s far more gray in his beard now, and its longer. He looks so tired, and it makes her heart ache. But those eyes, they have always said so much, even when he is not speaking. And they are telling her everything now. He is telling her that she controls this situation; it is up to her to decide his fate.

She weighs it.

Their conversation is quiet. He speaks few words, and she answers with even less. There have been failures, ones Ragnar acknowledges, and she confirms. It is strange, this place they are in. She is an earl, powerful and growing more so by the day, and he is a fallen king.

“Where have you been?”

Nowhere. And everywhere, he says. She pours more ale, and he accepts. 

They sit in companionable silence, watching one another. She's never been more striking. The green of her dress plays off the lightness of her hair. She's regal. Like a queen. The queen that she should have been. The queen he knows she will soon be.  Her face is calm, but she's seated defensively--protective, and he understands why. She cannot afford to be broken again. He's always been her weakness. But she's always been his.

Words are starting to fail as he realizes just how different they now are. Ragnar hopes there is still something there that he can grasp onto, a way to get through to her, to make her understand. She must understand. He needs her deliverance. Her approval, and her forgiveness.

“I regret what happened between us,” Ragnar says leaning back in his chair and looking at the ceiling. “I have made many bad choices,” he gestures with his hands.

“We all approved of your ideas,” she says measuredly. “But they didn’t work. Ragnar Lothbrok did not succeed.”

It is not meant to be cruel. But it is the truth. Their settlement did not succeed. Their raids on Paris did not succeed. What did they gain in England, except to expand another king's power? Their people have grown richer, but at what cost? Ragnar and Lagertha had started with a dream--a dream to farm in faraway places, to stop the wars, to build a new future. Yet there are more and greater conflicts soon to come--it is obvious to them both.

There have been so many failures between them. Even they failed--he as a husband, and she as his wife.

Dwelling on the past is painful. So many regrets, so many opportunities lost. Betrayals and battles...they both know if they'd made different choices, it could have been so very different.

It didn't have to be like this.

It didn't have to end like this.

He smiles, a sad smile.

“I should go to bed now, I am tired,” he says, blowing out the fire on a stick.

“It has been a long journey.”

“Not in the body,” he taps his head. “In the mind.”

“All of our journeys are in the mind.”

“In my mind, I wish we’d never left our farm…” He pauses. And so does her heart.

Ragnar, Lagertha Bjorn Gyda and Athelstan. Their family. Their farm. It was the happiest they’d ever been. All together, all wrapped up in love, protected from the world.

“Forgive me all of my faults, my failings.” He smiles ruefully, and stands up. A slight grimace crosses his face as he moves toward her.  Her emotional shields begin to fail with each step he takes. And all the feelings she has suppressed these long years are threatening to surface. She rises as he comes close and breathes him in, staring into his eyes. He could be as still as the trees and yet his eyes will tell her everything, as they do now. She feels her heart beat faster as he leans in, and she holds her breath as his beard brushes against the side of her face, making her skin tingle.

The gentle kiss he lays on her cheek is almost enough to break her.

“No regrets,” he says and turns away, but she catches him, and guides his lips back to hers.

“And yet, every regret,” her voice cracks and she kisses him softly, deeply. It hurts so good when he kisses her back.

She lets him go with tears in her eyes, but they do not fall.

He leaves to sleep in the tiny house nearby.

Later she has sex with her Lover. But it doesn’t bring her comfort. And as Astrid sleeps beside her, Lagertha is restless. When she closes her eyes, she sees the goddess, Freya on her chariot, calling her to come. So, she leaves Astrid alone and slips outside the home. Her feet carry her to the small guest house paces away.

-xxx-

It has been a long time since he has laid on a proper bed. He struggles to get to sleep, but it eludes him. Eventually he moves to the floor.

He did know whether he would be accepted in her home. He has relied on the kindness from strangers and the past several years have been a studied practice in humility. There have been moments of desperation--where he has been so weak he thought he would not live. And each time someone has saved him.

Ragnar has tested his will against the wilds, using his wits to outsmart predators who viewed him as prey. He has been alone, and he has been lonely. Now is time to come back, to finish his journey where it began.

His ex-wife has shown him charity. He is grateful for her kindness.

Ragnar tosses and turns but he still cannot get comfortable. He rests on his back, staring up at the ceiling, noting the intricate weaving of the sticks that form the walls, remembering a time when he had built a home for his family on the beach with his own hands, taking breaks only to carry his wife into the trees to make love before starting to work again. He has thought about that time often; He would give everything back to have that life again.

He thinks the first knocking sound is in his mind. But the second one he doesn’t miss. It is very late. Morning will be coming soon.

When he opens the door she is standing there in a thin nightgown. The moonlight casts off her hair making her glow. It is cold, and he can see her breasts through the thin fabric she wears. He starts to say something but she stops him, stepping inside, and putting a finger on his lips, “shhh…” before replacing it with her own.

 He kisses her back, first unsure. But she does not pull away, and the kiss deepens as he presses her against him feeling her—so soft and firm at the same time.

Desire is something that has not stirred in Ragnar’s body in a long time. He had come to accept that he was dead in this regard, but as she kisses him he comes alive, and he can feel himself growing harder, his pants suddenly too tight. Her hands move down to assist as she keeps her mouth on his. Slowly, he removes his many layers of clothing until he stands before her naked, baring both his body, and his soul.

She pulls back, and slowly unties her gown, letting it fall from her shoulders to the floor.

They pause, studying each other. His eyes go to her arm, to the new tattoo there--chainmail, masking the place where the sword impaled her in Paris. he feels a surge of guilt. But as his eyes wander down her body, the guilt is replaced by a surge of love... still carries his insignia on her thigh, the tattoo he made himself.

She sees Ragnar, his body still as strong as it has ever been, muscles carved from a lifetime of battles and labor, the skin marked by deep wounds healed long ago that serve as reminders of contests won and lost.

She traces the circular scar above his left eye with her fingers, while her other hand caresses his chest, touching each raised wound. She lets her hand drift down and further still until she reaches his manhood, stroking with him, teasing him, touching him. It jumps at her touch, the skin like that of a snake, twitching and tensing. The fingers dip below, fondling, the skin here more smooth and soft, and heavy.

His eyes are closed, his head back as a deep moans escapes his mouth. This is different now. He has always been so dominant, but it is now her who controls his pleasure, and she will not release him. It’s like he is seeing again for the first time. Like he is _feeling_ for the first time. The pounding of his own heart echoes in his ears. Each time she touches him sends shocks through his body. He is helpless, and he surrenders himself to her...

 

She keeps her hand wrapped around him, guiding them to the bed and he lays down as she comes to rest on top of him.  His breathing becoming shallower as he loses himself in all the things she is doing to his body right now. He cannot control his reactions, nor does he want to. She hovers over him, her mouth on his neck, his chest, his stomach, and still lower. But when her lips reach the tip he jumps and groans. He is hers now and he imagines this is what it is like to lay with the goddess Freyja herself. Ragnar cries out as she lowers herself onto him, and like reflex he reaches to grab her ass, pulling her down as he pushes his hips up, sinking deep inside her. She hisses and he stops immediately-- suddenly worried that he has hurt her.

But when she lowers herself to his chest, and speaks to him, they are words from heaven.

“It’s been a long time.”

He knows in that moment, by the way she says it, she’s talking about him. And he knows with certainty that he was the last man inside her. He stills his body so they can readjust to one another. There is a freedom in surrender as he lets her take control, allowing her movements to dictate the pace. Her hips begin a slow, steady circular rhythm.

It is like meditation, a communion with the gods, and a prayer.

“I want to ride you,” Lagertha whispers in his ear, her breasts grazing his chest. “Like a boar.”

She’s said these words before, but they have so much more meaning now.

He has always been her boar, like Freyja’s Hildisvini, her lover in disguise. He sees it all now, everything that has been in a new light. She is baptizing him in her body, purifying his soul with her love. His passion flares anew, and he sits up, keeping her on his lap as he bends her backward to bite her neck and let his tongue lap gently at her breasts, catching her nipples between his teeth before soothing them with his lips.

“You ruined me,” she whispers as she begs for him, and he comes to her with determination and desire. He lifts her up, turning them around, so that he can lay her on her back. It is his turn now and he wants to take his time, savor her flesh. Indulge himself in her body. He pulls out of her, and she whimpers at the loss. But he replaces the sensation with something else.

Ragnar takes his time as he kneels between her legs, putting his face against her heat and inhaling the the smell. He reaches into her with his tongue to taste. She is writhing, and he grips her thighs so she cannot wrap them around his head. He wants her to feel this; he wants to give her pleasure, and he wants to give her love. These are the memories he wants to die with.

When he finishes, and slides back into her, she groans. He pushes deep, long slow thrusts…taking his time, controlling their pace, their pleasure, their rhythm. She digs her nails down his back, grabbing his butt, urging him deeper inside and he gives her all he has, all he is.

Friend, lover, father, mother, enemy… they begin to fuck.

The bed groans and they lose themselves in each other, riding until they can’t climb any further. She is crying now, her arms around his neck, his mouth on hers tasting. They are both desperate, and unwilling to let go.

They fuck.

Until she is screaming his name in orgasm and he bites down hard on her neck, her skin stifling his groan as his seed spills into her body, carrying with it his heart, his soul. It is hers to guard, to do with as she pleases.  He wants to mark her, give her something she will not soon forget. A parting gift, and a promise, one he swears will not be broken this time.

She has learned from him grown with him, and she carries his legacy in their son, and in her will to survive. He knows she will take over Kattegat-- it is a promise she made to him a long time ago. And he reminds of her of it, giving her his blessing as they come down from the clouds. It is time for the rightful queen to take her throne back. The one she should have held from the start.

They speak freely now, and he is honest.  He tells her he will soon die, and that it will be in his own way and of his own devising. He tells her to look out for him; He will come to her on his way to Valhalla.  And he promises to wait for her there.  Her tears fall on his face like salve to open wounds, stitching him back together, giving him new strength to complete his journey. He has never feared death; only the things left unresolved. He could not die without fixing this. And now that it is done, he feels complete. Made whole by her love. Death he now welcomes with open arms.

“You ruined me too,” he tells her. “It has always been you, in my heart.”

When he enters her again an hour later, it is gentle, so achingly slow. They cry as they make love, aware and in the knowledge it will be the last time.

Lagertha gave Ragnar her heart thirty years ago. Tonight she gives him so much more.

 _Absolution_.

.

.

_Odin and Frigg are pleased. It is done. Ragnar has finally learned. Frigg sets about preparing a feast in Valhalla for him when he comes, and Odin prepares to deliver the news. They know that even as he doubts, Ragnar’s faith will prove true, and he will die with honor, and with love. And he will be rewarded for his sacrifice in the next life._


	19. Chapter 19

**Afterward**

She stands on the hill the next morning watching as he rides away. The wind blows her hair, revealing the red marks he’s left on her skin. Her dress hides the rest—handprints from where he gripped her waist, the bite marks on her breasts. Her lips are tender and between her legs is sore. She feels alive again.

Killing Aslaug is as much a necessity as it is of mercy, and the consequences she accepts willingly. As Lagertha takes back Kattegat, her home—she is fulfilling both a promise to her husband, and to herself. And she has succeeded.

Later, in the bed that once belonged to her and her husband, she is awakened from her sleep by the sound of someone walking. It is dark, but there is a glow coming from the great hall. She calls out, but no one answers, and she goes to look.

A single tear falls from her face.

Ragnar has finally kept a promise. He has come back, and she knows now that he is dead.

He appears to her bathed in light, looking like the man he was when they were young, when his hair was long--the hair she braided and played with and washed lovingly at night. He smiles that mischievous grin, the one she fell for so many, many years ago.

“I knew you would come my love,” she whispers to his ghost.

“Enjoy [Valhalla](http://vikings.wikia.com/wiki/Valhalla), you deserve it. But do not forget me. Haunt me. Do not leave me.”

Ragnar is gone. He is at rest, but Lagertha knows her work remains unfinished. The wars are coming. And she must defend what they built together. Their legacy to all their children.

**-xxx-**

The golden gates reach toward the sky and he can hear the sounds of revelry and laughter. He has traveled a great distance to be here. Valhalla. He has seen this place before, and approaches cautiously, remembering how these doors closed to him, and fearful they may do so again.

 As he gets closer, the light shines brighter, and he covers his eyes with his arm to shield his sight. He knows he must go on.

He takes the first step, the second, the third and the gates remain open. Ragnar Lothbrok continues walking into the light. He is suddenly struck by lightning all around him—it races through his veins, singing his flesh and he is being ripped apart. There is thunder in the sky, and the ground shakes.  He screams in agony as everything goes dark.

.

.

He awakens with a start, unsure of where he is, disoriented. There are shades of gray, and vague shapes and sounds he can barely make out. Ragnar blinks, gathering his wits about him, and slowly the world begins to come into focus. He feels sand under his fingers. The sound of waves crashing ashore. The wind carries the smell of the sea and birds fly overhead. There is earth and there is sky, and he wonders what has happened. Did he make it to Valhalla or has he been cast out again?

Ragnar touches himself—feeling his own arms and legs, his face—his beard…shorter…his hair…he has hair again—long, and braided. He is himself, and yet he is not. Movement is easier, unburdened by age and injury. He feels…young again.

Rising, he surveys what is around him and stops when his eyes fall upon the large structure peeking out over the trees. There’s a lump in his throat and he’s unable to process it…afraid to believe it. Have his failures been so great that this is his death? To live in this place of memories…and regrets?

It is his house.

 His _farm._

_But how?_

 Ragnar walks slowly across the sand and up to the door and hesitates—afraid. What if there is no one inside? He steadies himself and pushes it open.

 “Father! Father!”

Bjorn and Gyda rush to him and wrap themselves around his legs pulling him to the floor. He embraces them, holding them close, his tears wetting their hair. They are small children still.

“Ragnar?” He looks up, into the eyes of his wife, Lagertha. There’s concern in her eyes as he raises a shaking hand to her, pulling her down with them.  They are all here.

“What is going on?”

Another face appears. Athelstan.

This is his family. These are the only people he has ever truly loved. Those most important to him in the world.

And Ragnar now knows--this is his Valhalla.

The gods have carried him home.

He makes love to his wife, and he dotes on his children. He has been granted a second chance to live his life again. And this time, he will make very different choices.

**-END-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to Jades and Aphrodite's Tea, whose wonderful, insightful commentary helped form and guide the direction of this story. You two are wonderful. 
> 
> Thank you to the many people who have taken the time to read this work and offer kudos. I am so pleased to see there are more of us Ragnar/Lagertha shippers out there. 
> 
> And yes, there is a sequel! It's already completed and ready to go. Title is still pending, so if you have ideas, let me know. If you're in the mood for nothing but really great sex, check out "Love Games" (pure smut, very little plot, but lots of love) and I also have an AU fic in progress.
> 
> One more note: I am still in the market for a beta, so if you're interested, please leave a comment. The job comes with lots of gratitude, and first dibs on the stories.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the expanded version of "When Love Is Not Enough" posted on fanfiction.net


End file.
